Message in a Bottle
by IndianSpice
Summary: While on vacation, Rory stumbles upon a bottle.This bottle contains a message that will change two people forever, two people who would otherwise never have met again, and for this reason it would be called a fated message…
1. Fate Set Adrift

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Disclaimer: The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me, they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. The story line that I'm using is from the book Message in a Bottle, by the amazing Nicholas Sparks, which I hold no ownership of either. I _will_ use some other quotes and descriptions from it in this story. The first 3 paragraphs explain about bottles and I'm quoting it directly from Message in a Bottle. 

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A/N: Okay, so, this idea has been floating in my head for a while and I thought I might give it a shot. It's not going to be exactly like Message in a Bottle; I will be only using some parts. Okay, here goes. 

Shout outs: Thanks so much to Emmy, Fiona, Krys, and Elise! You all rock!

Enjoy! 

Priya

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A few hours before the rain began to fall, the bottle was dropped overboard on a warm summer evening. Like all bottles, it was fragile and would break if dropped a few feet from the ground. But when sealed properly and sent to sea, as this one was, it became one of the most seaworthy objects known to man. It could float safely through hurricanes and storms, it could bob atop the most dangerous of riptides. It was, in a way, the ideal home for the message it carried inside, a message that been sent to fulfill a promise.

Like that all bottles left to the whim of the oceans, its course was unpredictable. Winds and currents play large roles in any bottle's direction; storms and debris may shift its course as well. Occasionally a fishing net will snag a bottle and carry it a dozen miles the opposite direction in which it was headed. The result is that two bottles dropped simultaneously into the ocean might end up a continent apart, or even at the opposite sides of the globe. There is no way to predict where the bottle will travel, that is part of its mystery.

It was after 26 days and 738 miles, that the bottle ended it journey by coming to Cape Cod Bay, washing up near a shore near Chatham beach. This bottle contained a message that would change two people forever, two people who would otherwise never have met again, and for this reason it would be called a fated message…

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A chilly wind was blowing, and Rory Gilmore crossed her arms to stare at the water before her. She found herself alone on the beach, and took in her surroundings. The ocean, was reflecting the color of the sky, looked like liquid iron, and waves rolled up steadily on the shore. Overpowering clouds were descending slowly, and the thick fog made the horizon almost invisible. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, almost tasting the salty water. She was dumbfounded about the majestic beauty around her.

Paris had made a very generous offer by asking Rory to come along. "Jess will be out in his photography class, or will be writing, and I'd like the company," she'd said, "and besides, what else are you going to do? You need to get out of the apartment sometime, Rory." Rory knew that Paris was right and after thinking it over she agreed. "Ha! I knew you were gonna come. Jess and I made a bet. Guess who won? Anyhow, you are gonna love it there," Paris had announced with a victorious smile on her face. 

Rory started, chuckling lightly at the scene. However, she was glad that Paris made her come along. She was enjoying her vacation already. She had to admit that they were staying at a really nice place. The Fisher House had been beautifully restored. It was a captain's house and it sat perched on a rocky cliff overlooking Cape Cod Bay. It was a nice change from home and work. She closed her eyes again and recollected her thoughts. Remembering everything from the beginning.

****

Once, Stars Hollow was really the only place that she could call home. The familiar gossip, the trinket stores, the lively people, and Luke's heavenly coffee. She knew everything so well there. She was so used to the quirky town, with warm friendly people that she loved. At that time all she had known was that town. 

Of course, she had made the occasional visits to big cities like New York and Boston, but those were nothing compared to college life. She remembered the day the letter came from Harvard. Grabbing the precious envelope in her hands she furiously ran to Luke's, where her mom was. She got in there panting and squealing with delight. In a short matter of time, Lorelai had gathered practically the whole town in Luke's. Rory's hands were trembling as she tore open the glossed envelope; everyone holding their breath. To all their surprise and disappointment Rory didn't get into Harvard. Rory was devastated, and it took her quite a while to get over it. 

Days later, another letter came, and delivered the wonderful news that Rory had been accepted into Yale. Being a Yale Man Richard couldn't be any prouder of Rory. In fact, Emily was so delighted that a huge celebration was thrown. Rory was fitted into an itchy dress and was led around by Emily, meeting the aristocrats. Finally breaking free and in need of some air, Rory made a quick escape to the balcony, and was surprised to see one solitary figure already standing there.

Paris Gellar.

She was slouching, her bent head in her hands. Her burnished dirty blonde hair was pulled up in an elegant knot, but if only her face looked half as elegant. Her eyes were dark. Hollow. Empty even. Tears mixed with mascara streaked her dead white, sullen face. Her jaw was clenched tightly as she stared off into oblivion.

Immediately Rory turned on her heel to leave; she didn't even want to look at Paris, even if she was in a hideously unbecoming state. She still couldn't forgive Paris for what she had done to her in senior year. But froze when she heard a whimper escape the girl's lips. Silently cursing to herself for being too nice she made a sharp turn. Rory's eyes became softer as she made her way towards the crying girl. Rory did the best to soothe her, and when she asked the reason for her outburst Paris silently mumbled about no getting into Harvard. Rory dropped the subject right then, not wanting to start another batch of tears. Their small talk was quickly built into a meaningful conversation. They shared their apologizes and quickly forgot the dreadful Chilton years. And soon it was time to leave and that night was forgotten as well.

Finally, the big day had arrived. It was time for Rory to leave for college. The whole town was clustered in the Gilmore's backyard waiting for Rory to come out. Oh yes, another party was thrown, but this one was more intimate and loving. Opening the front door, Rory was greeted with an echo of surprises. Her large blue eyes lit up instantly, as she squealed with delight. Her eyes traveled across the waves of familiar faces, and her grin grew wider. She felt her heart swelling with love and warmth. Then, when it was time to get going she shed her tears along with everyone else.

Freshmen year had been the hardest on Rory. As soon as she stepped onto the campus, she knew things were going to be much different. She was new to it all. It was as if she was living in a whole new world. The different streets, the different people, and the different atmosphere. She had made a couple of friends, but that wasn't enough.

Then one day, carrying a tower of books, she so far had managed not to run into anyone. She let her guard down for a second and instantly slammed into a slim form. They both collided, falling down and the books were flying everywhere. At first, Rory didn't recognize the smiling girl with a new style, consisting of choppy blonde hair, until she started yelling at Rory in a very familiar way. Rory's heart filled with delight to see the familiar face, and scrambled over to the girl pulling her into a huge hug. Paris gladly hugged Rory back. They sat there, in the middle of the hallway for the rest hour catching up, and not even bothering to pick up the books. 

Paris was no longer the uptight, scowling girl. Nor was she the devastated girl that Rory had seen on the balcony. Instead, she had become much more carefree and smiled more often. And the occasional visits that Lorelai made definitely loosened Paris up. She began to enjoy life much more, and started acting her age.

While in Yale, the girls had formed an unique bond of bantering, intellect, and loads of coffee. They had shared joy, laughter, tears, and were always there for each other.

In the middle of junior year Rory had many friends, but she caught the attention of one particular person. Seth Sgambati. Oh yes, Seth was indeed a fine Italian specimen. He was strongly built and reached just over 6'0. With chocolate brown hair, sparkling green eyes, and a mischievous smile playing across his face, he won Rory Gilmore's heart. They started off slowly, holding hands, watching movies, a few sweet kisses. Rory liked him, and thought he was the _one_. They dated for over 10 months, until they made a mutual decision to break-up. They still kept in touch, but nothing would ever be like it was before. She often missed what they had, but knew they had done the right thing.

****

Suddenly, his voice started ringing in her head, " Goodbye, Lorelai Gilmore." That was the last thing he said to her. She had to admit that she still missed Seth, but she was yearning for him even more these days. Smiling wistfully, she came to halt, putting her hands on her legs and hanging her head, tried to catch her breath.

As her breathing eased, she looked around and saw a man standing in the water. He was wearing faded, rolled up jeans and his face was deeply tanned. He had his eyes closed and was standing barefoot in the water enjoying it. She was intrigued by his actions and suddenly wanted to try it for herself. She slipped out of her shoes, peeling her socks off. Placing them down gently on the sand, she ran freely towards the water. She stepped out a little farther into the water and mimicked the man, hoping to feel whatever he was feeling. But when she closed her eyes her mind immediately drifted off somewhere else.

After both girls graduated from Yale, they thought they would be going their own separate ways, but were shortly brought back together. Rory had a job interview at the Boston Times, and for the first time was running late. Her alarm hadn't didn't ring that morning, and she had woken up with a sudden jolt, when her cat, Cleo, pounced on her. Scrambling around to find her black pumps she banged her head on the coffee table, which left a memorable bruise. After five more minutes of searching, they were no where in sight and she did the only thing she could, which was slipping into her tennis shoes. She finally arrived with her disheveled look and was immediately ushered into a room. A petite woman, with a warm smile on her face was looking outside the window when Rory silently slipped in. The woman studied Rory and upon reaching her shoes, she burst out laughing. Immediately, Rory was alleviated that the woman wasn't an evil demon, as she had imagined. It turned out that Rory got the job.

A few days later, Rory was introduced to the person who she would share some of her columns with. She went into the room and found Paris Gellar clad in all black with sparkling dark eyes, spinning on a revolving chair. Instantly both girls began squealing and laughing joyfully. Extremely happy to be working together, the girls' column became a great success. 

She opened her eyes, and looked to see if the man was still there, but he had left. Her feet had stiffened by the cold water and she decided not to put her socks and shoes on. Picking them up she started her walk back. Excited about all the things she would do this weekend, she smiled at the thought of having time for herself. She would read some books, put her feet up, and have a cup of coffee. Get in touch with some friends that she hadn't heard from in a while. Sleep late, pig out, and jog in the mornings enjoying the beauty.

She also wanted to shop this week. Not those large department stores, but little trinket stores. She wanted to try on a few cute outfits and buy a couple that flattered her. She had often been told by Paris, who used to be the Queen of Coverage, herself, to show some skin. She might even get her hair done; she wanted to try something new. And if she happened to be asked out by some nice guy, maybe she'd go, just to have an excuse to wear the new things she had bought.

She walked to the water's edge and saw a large rock buried in the sand. As she drew nearer, she realized it wasn't a rock at all. It was a bottle, probably discarded by a tourist or some teens, which came here at night. Looking over her shoulder she saw a garbage can chained to the lifeguard she decided to do her good deed for the day. Picking up the bottle, she was surprised to find it corked with a note inside wrapped with yarn, standing on its end.

Her heart quickened as another memory came back to her. She had been about 8 years old and was vacationing with her Mom in Florida. While building a sandcastle, she found a bottle with a message in it. It was a map that had an X mark to show where the treasure was. She remembering going in circles searching the whole day, but finding nothing in the end. She was so mad, and vented her anger by writing long letter telling the person who sent it not to play mean tricks like that. After returning from her vacation, she remembered running up to the mailbox to see it anyone had responded her. And the memory stopped right there, nothing else came no matter how hard she tried.

She began pulling on the cork; it was wedged in tightly, and she was glad that her slim fingers could easily grasp it. She starting twisting it, and even switched hands, but it didn't even budge. Frustrated at her feeble attempts, she put the bottle between her legs for more leverage, and tightened her grip on the cork. Pulling with all of her might, she felt the cork move. She began twisting slowly yet firmly, and the cork fell out. She got excited all of a sudden and fumbled to get the note out, and was surprised to see it come out with such ease.

If it were a child writing to her she would reply, and maybe even send a postcard or a little gift. But as she carefully untied the yarn, she knew it wasn't a child's stationary at all. It was expensive paper, thick and sturdy, with a silhouette of a sailing ship embossed on the upper right hand corner. The paper itself was crinkled, and ancient looking. But as she scrutinized the writing, she knew she was wrong for it dated July 22, 2007. That meant it was sent a little more than three weeks ago. Only three weeks?

She looked a little further, it was a long message, and taking a quick glance she saw no address or phone number, and supposed it might be in the message itself. 

Se felt a twinge of curiosity she held the message in front of her, and it was then in the rising sunlight, that she first read the letter that changed her life forever…

To Be Continued…

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Well, what did you think so far? Should I really continue? I would really love to hear your thoughts. If you have the time please drop me a line; it will be greatly appreciated! 

Priya :D


	2. A Fated Message

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Disclaimer: The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me, they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. The story line that I'm using is from the book Message in a Bottle, by Nicholas Sparks, which I hold no ownership of either. I **will** use some other quotes and descriptions from it in this story. I'm directly quoting the letter from Message in a Bottle.

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A/N: *waves wand* Ta -da! Here's the new installment!** ***sigh***** If it were only easy as waving a wand. Thanks so much to all of you who reviewed! I'm smiling like an idiot because of them. Wow! I didn't expect so many, but I'm not complaining! :D

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Shout outs: To** Elise** and the lovely **Katie (IcePrincess) **for giving me awesome, yet truthful feedback! To **Stargirl **for checking this for me. Thanks! BTW, go check out all their work! It rocks!

Enjoy!

Priya

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_July 22, 2007  
My Dearest Christine,  
  
I miss you, baby, as I always do, but today is especially hard because the oceans have been singing to me, and the song is that is of our life together. I can almost feel you beside me as I write this letter, and I can smell the scent of wildflowers that always reminds me of you. But at this moment, these things give me no pleasure. Your visits have been coming less often, and I feel sometimes as if you are the greatest part of who I am is slowly slipping away.  
  
I am trying, though. At night when I am alone, I call for you, and whenever my ache seems to be the greatest, you still seem to find a way to return to me. Last night, in my dreams, I saw you on the pier near Wrightsville Beach. The wind was blowing through your hair, and your eyes held the fading sunset. I am struck as I see you leaning against the rail. You are beautiful, I think as I see you, a vision that I can never find in anyone else. I slowly begin to walk towards you, and when you finally turn to me, I notice that others have been watching you as well. "Do you know her?" they ask me in jealous whispers, and as you smile at me, I simply answer the truth. "Better than my own heart."  
  
I stop when I reach you and take you into my arms. I long for this moment more than any other. It is what I live for, and when you return my embrace, I give myself over to this moment, at peace once again.  
  
I raise my hand and gently touch your cheek and you tilt your head and close your eyes. My hands are hard and your skin is soft, and I wonder for a moment if you'll pull back, but of course you don't. You never have, and it's at times like this that I know my purpose in life.  
  
I am here to love you, to hold you in my arms, to protect you. I am here to learn from you and to receive your learn in return. I am here because there is no other place to be.  
  
But then, as always, the mist starts to form as we stand close to one another. It is a distant fog that rises from the horizon, and I find that I grow fearful as it approaches. It slowly creeps in, enveloping the world around us, fencing us in as if to prevent escape. Like a rolling cloud, it blankets everything, closing, until there is nothing left but the two of us.  
  
I feel my throat begin to close and my eyes well up with tears because I know that it is time for you to go. The look that you give me at that moment haunts me. I feel your sadness and my own loneliness, and the ache in my heart that has been silent for only a short time grows stronger as you release me. And then you spread your arms and step back into the fog because it is your place and not mine. I long to go with you, but your only response is to shake your head because we both know that is impossible.  
  
And I watch with a breaking heart as you slowly fade away. I find myself straining to remember everything, about this moment, everything about you. But soon, always too soon, your image vanishes and the fog rolls back to its faraway place and I am alone on the pier and I do not care what others think as I bow my head and cry and cry and cry.  
  
Michael _**** "Have you been crying?" asked Paris, as Rory made her way to the back deck, bottle in hand.  
  
Feeling slightly embarrassed, Rory took a seat, wiping away a few tears. Immediately, Paris reached out and took Rory's hand," Rory, are you okay? What happened? Did you hurt yourself?" Even before Rory could open her mouth, Paris had dragged Jess onto the deck. "Jess, she won't answer me! Tell her to say something!" commanded Paris, her face registering concern.  
  
"Paris, calm down," instructed Jess, pulling a short-sleeved thermal over his head.  
  
"See, this is exactly what I was saying yesterday. You don't take things at all seriously."  
  
"Hey now. I don't wanna talk about that anymore."  
  
"See, you're proving my point right now."  
  
"Well, I'm sorry, oh Ice Queen," retorted Jess, smirking a little upon seeing Paris's expression.  
  
"You are so immature!" accused Paris, sticking out her tongue.  
  
"Says the woman who just stuck out her tongue." Then with a slow smile spreading across his face he walked closer to her, "You know, your tongue can be used for a better purpose than that."  
  
"You think?" asked Paris innocently, giving into his charm.  
  
"I know," he responded, both of them completely forgetting the fact Rory was in the room or the reason she was crying.  
  
Rory silently chuckled to herself; things never changed between those two. Paris and Jess had been dating for two years now. She remembered Paris telling her about their first official date.  
  
Paris wanted to go to a fancy art exhibition and Jess wanted to go boating. They had been arguing for days and finally they decided, but there was a misunderstanding. Somehow he had heard that they were going to the exhibition and she agreed that they were going boating. They had decided to meet at a little Italian place. When they arrived Paris was casually dressed in some jeans and a red top, while Jess was fitted into a tux. At the sight of each other they burst out laughing. They went boating first and Jess fell into the lake, so when they arrived at the exhibit they both looked like fools. One whose clothes were so soaked that they were clinging in a very unprofessional way, and the other who looked like a ragamuffin. Nonetheless, they were fools having fun.  
  
Clearing her throat, Rory gave an indication that she was still in the room. Sharing one last quick kiss, Jess left for his photography class.   
  
Smiling blissfully, Paris asked the reason for Rory's tears. 

  
  
"Oh, well, ummm…I found this letter and it was so touching that I started to cry. I shouldn't have been so emotional about it. Sorry."  
  
"A letter? Heh. Well, I'm glad that you're okay." She paused for a moment. "It made you cry? Well, what did it say?"  
  
Rory smiled and little and handed Paris the letter. Sitting down on the wrought-iron chair, she felt ridiculous for crying and tried to compose herself.   
  
Paris read the letter slowly, taking all the details in, and when she finished she looked up at Rory. Her eyes were watering as well, and a quavering smile tugged across her face.  
  
"Wow," she finally said. "That was moving."  
  
"That's exactly what I thought," responded Rory.  
  
"I wonder how it washed up on the beach. I mean, the bay is sheltered from the rest of the ocean, and I've never heard of Wrightsville Beach before," the blonde thought out loud.  
  
"It probably washed up last night. I almost walked past it, but then I noticed what it was."  
  
Slowly Paris ran a finger over the fine paper, which scripted finer writing. "I wonder who they are."  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Well, aren't you curious?"  
  
The truth was that Rory was extremely curious. Immediately after reading it the first time, she read it again, and then a third time. She wondered how it would be like to have someone love her that way.  
  
"Yeah," she confessed, "a little bit. But it's not like we'll ever find out."  
  
"What are you going to do with it?" questioned Paris.  
  
"Keep it, probably."  
  
"Hmmm," Paris said simply with an indecipherable smile. "How did the jogging go?"  
  
"It was nice and it felt good having some time to myself. I saw the sun rise; it was beautiful. It looked like the whole world was glowing," told Rory, sipping some cranberry juice that she had poured.  
  
"That's just because you were dizzy from lack of oxygen. You know, jogging can do that to you," remarked Paris smugly.  
  
Rory smiled, amused. "So, I assume you won't come with me this week?"  
  
"You assume right. My exercising is limited to vacuuming the house every weekend that is if I ever find the damn thing. Can you imagine me huffing and puffing out there?"  
  
"Actually, I can," chuckled Rory. "And Paris, let me be the first to tell you that you're not the greatest running companion."  
  
Paris gave a little pout. "Hey! I find that highly offensive. You are no longer my friend." Both girls shared a smile before getting down to business. "So what is on the agenda today, Gilmore?"  
  
Just as Rory was about to respond, Paris cut her off. "If it has anything to do with root beer, Vikings, or inviting the low lives and bikers to trash the place, count me out."  
  
"Now Paris, when have I ever had you do something involving those things?" asked Rory innocently, draining her glass of the juice. "Actually, I was thinking we do a little shopping and have lunch in town. How does that sound?"  
  
"Sounds pretty good to me." The two women talked about the places that they wanted to visit, and Paris started making a few graphs and maps. She was routing the way that would be the fastest and easiest for them to get everything done. This time, Rory didn't even protest; she had gotten used to Paris's odd methods of doing things. Then, she got up and went inside for a cup of coffee. When she came back, Paris was holding the letter. Suddenly, her eyebrows rose like she had just triggered something in her memory.  
  
Rory sat down her coffee mug in hand. "What is it?"  
  
"I'm just thinking…"she said quietly.  
  
"About?"  
  
"Well, while you were inside an idea popped up in my head. I was wondering if we should run this letter in your column this week. I would run it in mine, but you found it."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
Paris leaned across the table,"Just what I said." This time she spoke slowly, enunciating each word,"I think we should run this letter in your column this week. I'm sure that other people would love to read it as well. People need to read something like this once in a while. And this is so touching. I can picture a hundred woman cutting it out and taping it to their refrigerators so their husbands can see it when they get home from work."  
  
"Paris, we don't even know who they are. Plus, we should get their permission first before printing something as personal as this in the paper."  
  
"That's just the point, Rory. We can't get their permission. I can talk to the attorney at the paper, but I'm sure it's legal. As long as we don't use their real names and don't take credit for writing or divulge where it might be from. I'm sure it would be all right."  
  
Rory thought for a while before responding. "I know that it is probably legal, but is it right? I mean, printing such a personal letter in a paper for everyone to read?"  
  
"It's a human interest story, Rory. People love these kind of things. This is a beautiful letter, and there isn't anything dirty or embarrassing in it. And remember… this Michael person sent in a bottle in the ocean. He knew that it couldn't just float around forever. It would have to wash up somewhere, and someone would read it."  
  
"I'm still not sure…"  
  
"Rory, I think this is a great idea, and I want the both of us to agree. Just think about."

****

Rory did think about it as she got into the shower. She found herself wondering about the man who wrote it---Michael, if that was his real name. And who, if anyone was Christine? Obviously, his wife or lover, but she wasn't around anymore. Was she dead, Rory pondered, or did something else occur to break them up? And why was the letter sent in a bottle and sent adrift? The whole thing was odd. Then, her reporter's instincts took over her, and suddenly she thought that it could mean nothing. It could be someone just wanting to write a love letter, or it could be sent by a vicarious thrill that wanted to make women cry on beaches. But as the words swirled around her head, she knew that it was true. The letter came from the heart. And to think that a man wrote it! She had never received anything even close to that letter. She had read all stuff that Jess wrote, but they were never like this.  
  
She poured some shampoo on her head, lathering and rinsing it. The question slipped her mind as the cool water beads rolled down her skin. She washed the rest of her body with a scrubber and moisturizing soap. When she felt her skin getting wrinkly, she knew that she had been in the shower long enough and quickly slipped out of the stall. Wrapping a fluffy towel around her body she looked at herself, steamy in the mirror.   
  
She had a great complexion, her alabaster skin shone, as she reached for her toothbrush. She squirted just the right amount of toothpaste and started brushing. She had always been complimented on her skin and eyes. She had large blue piercing eyes. They were so blue that she often got startled when she looked in mirrors. Random people even came up to her in grocery stores and asked her if she wore contacts. She spit and then gargled with some minty mouthwash, and flashed one of her dazzling smiles. Seth used to say that her smile brightened everyone's day. Taking her hairbrush out of a drawer she slowly began untangling her hair, which hung limp in little clumps. She brushed it until it was straight and shiny, and decided that the wind could dry it.  
  
Sauntering over to her closet she pulled out a deep red top and a pair of comfy denim shorts. It would be hot and humid in another hour or so, and she wanted to be comfortable as she explored Provincetown. Seeing that the sun was already shining brightly, she made a mental note to pick up some sunscreen. From previous experience she knew that sunburns were a great way to ruin vacations.  
  
Heading outside on the deck, Paris had breakfast ready on the table. There were strawberries and grapefruit, along with toasted bagels. They ate quickly, then headed out for the long day ahead of them.  
  
Shopping with Paris was quite an experience.   
  
Once they finally managed to get to Provincetown, they spent the whole morning and afternoon there. Everything had to be done strategically. If things went out of order Paris would get very upset. They followed the mapped routes, until Rory got bored and decided to have some fun. They would be in shops that were decent enough Paris-wise, and Rory would catch her holding a simple shirt in front of the mirrors. And would say things like, "Oooh, Paris, that looks pretty steamy. Hmm, I wonder if Jess would go for the look." Rolling her eyes, Paris would quickly hang it in its former location, and would drag Rory out of the store. That was the only way to get Paris out of boring stores.  
  
Rory finally found four outfits and a swimsuit that suited her. Paris ended up buying a lacy dress that would have never left the rack if Rory hadn't threatened to expose Paris's dark college secrets. As they were about to leave, Rory spotted a music store and made a mad dash before Paris could stop her. Once inside, Rory got Incubus and a jazz CD of John Coltrane's earlier records. Skimming the racks and finding nothing else of substance, she went to look for Paris. Paris was already purchasing something when Rory found her. When asked what it was Paris wouldn't even open her mouth, finally after a game of tug-of-war on the Rory saw that it was the latest N*Sync CD.

  
  
"Justin is cute," explained Paris sheepishly.   
  
Rory burst out laughing at the thought of Ms. No-Nonsense-Paris Gellar having a secret crush on Justin Timberlake. 

Rory comforted Paris by responding, "Don't worry Paris. Everyone is allowed to have guilty pleasure once in a while, but wait till Jess hears about this." 

When they returned, Jess was watching Court TV in the living room.  
  
"Hey," he mumbled his eyes glued to the TV.

"Y'know Paris, I'm thinking that Jess spends more time with Judge Judy than you," Rory pointed out, plopping down on the couch.  
  
"Oh really? Honey, is there something that you haven't told me?" asked Paris walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water. She had been sweltering in the sun and desperately needed something cool.  
  
"She doesn't look too bad after her plastic surgery," reasoned Jess, eyes still fixed on the TV. That comment resulted in him getting slapped by the fully hydrated Paris.  
  
"Oww!" he yelped rubbing his head. "That hurt. There was no need for violence."  
  
"At least it managed to break the oh so loving look that you were giving the TV, and she never had plastic surgery," growled Paris.  
  
"Jess, I've noticed that you never give Paris that look anymore," noted Rory, shoving a handful of popcorn down her mouth.  
  
"Is it that obvious? Well, the reason for that is her snoring. It's wretched!"  
  
"Oh, I know what you're talking about," put in Rory. "She also does this mouth thing when she's sleeping. It kind of reminds me of a goat chewing."  
  
"Oh that thing,"chimed in Jess.  
  
"I have ears, y'know."  
  
"Yes, we do know, Paris," Rory smiled sweetly as the other girl glared.  
  
After a few more minutes of light bantering, Rory left them alone for the rest of the afternoon. The day was still warm and she decided to do something. Quickly changing into her swimsuit, she grabbed her towel, a People magazine and a small fold up chair and headed for the beach.  
  
She thumbed idly through the magazine, reading a few articles and skimming through the rest, not really interested in the lives of the rich and the famous. She could hear noise all around her. Children laughing and splashing in the water. Some building sand castles, some eating dripping popsicles, or others just running around squealing gleefully. The rhythmic lapping of the waves was very soothing. She put finally her magazine down and closed her eyes, angling her face towards the sun.  
  
She wanted a little tan by the time she got back home to work, if for no other reason to look as if she took some time to just lie around and do absolutely nothing. She was always regarded as a workaholic. If she wasn't working on her weekly column, she was working on the one for Sunday editions, or researching on the net, or poring over children developmental journals.   
  
Her column was never predictable---no one knew what was in store for the week. Perhaps that was a reason why it was so successful. At first, she and Paris shared a column but then Paris had gotten a column of her own. Rory sometimes answered questions in her column, gave advice, and reported on the latest development child data. Her column had turned her into a local celebrity of some kind.  
  
After an hour or so in the sun, Rory became hot and slowly walked into the water. She waded in hip deep and went under as a small wave came her way. She stayed a few more minutes in the water; feeling refreshed. Looking around she saw that people were leaving and decided she should get back too. She picked up her things and started heading back. _**** _When she got back Paris and Jess had gone for a walk along the beach and she settled down to read. She looked up at the clock--6 o'clock. They had been gone for a long while, and a little shiver went up her spine when she thought what could have happened to them. She immediately chided herself for thinking of stupid scenarios, but was still relieved when she saw them in the distance from the window. She watched them coming as the strolled hand-in hand along the water's edge. Sometimes it was still odd to her that Jess and Paris were together.  
  
When they returned, the three of them drove down to Hyannis and had dinner at Sam's Crab house, a great restaurant that lived up to its reputation. It was jam-packed; they had to wait an hour just to get seats, but when the food arrived, it was worth it. The steamed crabs had been placed in front of them and the butter had been flavored with garlic. Paris had to eat the crabs without butter because she was lactose intolerant. Rory and Jess ate slowly savoring every bit of it, letting out moans of pleasure at how delicious it was with the butter. They enjoyed making Paris mad. Towards the end of dinner, Jess said something about the letter that Rory had found.  
  
"I read it after I got back from the photography class. Paris hung it up on the fridge."  
  
"Yeah, I found it washed up on the beach."  
  
Finishing his drink he continued, "It was some letter. It really came from the heart."  
  
"Jess, do you know where Wrightsville Beach is?" asked Paris, wiping off his face with napkin.  
  
"Actually, I do. It's in North Carolina," he responded pushing the napkin away. "How could I forget it? It was senior year and some other guys and me planned to go there because we wanted to meet this girl. One of the guys had chatted with her for about a year and wanted to see her in real life. She was some girl. It turned out that she didn't like the guy that came to see her, and made her move on me. Wow, she made a good move. She…" he trailed off, realizing what he was saying. He turned to face Paris and she was giving him the look of death. "Heh, umm…"  
  
"Save it Jess. We'll talk about it later," she said quietly.  
  
"Anyway," continued Rory ignoring them, "where in North Carolina?"  
  
Jess didn't bother to look up again. He was afraid of Paris' glare. He started playing with the corners of the napkin and responded, "Near Wilmington---or actually it might even be part of it. If you're driving it's about an hour and a half from Myrtle Beach. Have you ever heard of the movie 'Cape Fear', Rory?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well, the Cape Fear River is in Wilmington, and that's where the two movies were set. Actually, a lot of movies are filmed there; usually beach related ones. However, it doesn't get as much attention as Myrtle Beach, but it's popular down in the south."  
  
Paris spoke with a hint of mischief in her tone. "Now we know where Michael is from."  
  
"Maybe, he just vacationed there or visited. There isn't a way to know for sure."  
  
Paris shook her head. "Nope. Think about the way the letter was written---it seems so real, the dream, to include a place that he visited once or twice."  
  
Rory smiled. "You've thought a lot about this haven't you?"  
  
"They're called instincts, Rory. You learn to go with them, and I bet that he probably lives near Wilmington or in it himself. So what do you think about publishing the letter?"  
  
"Still not sure."  
  
"How about we use their initials and not their names."  
  
"Why are so willing to do this?" asked Rory carefully.  
  
"Because I know a good story when I see one. Plus, this will be very meaningful to a lot of people. Nowadays, some people are too busy for romance," she gave Jess a sharp nudge in the ribs as she said that. "This letter proves that this can all happen."  
  
After a while, Rory slowly responded, "Fine."  
  
"You'll do it?"  
  
"Yeah, but we use their initials and cut out the part about Wrightsville Beach. I'll write a couple of sentences introducing it, okay?"  
  
"Great! We'll fax it tonight," said Paris with a victorious smile on her face. **** The next morning Rory got up early and went straight for the newspaper.   
  
_Two days ago, while I was on vacation, I was listening to some old songs on the radio and heard Sting singing "Message in a Bottle". Spurred to action by his impassioned crooning, I raced to the beach to find a bottle of my own. Within minutes I found one, and sure enough, it had a message in it. (Actually, I didn't hear the song first: I made that up for dramatic effect. But I did find a bottle the other morning with a deeply moving message inside.) I haven't been able to get it off my mind, and although it isn't something that I'd normally write about, in a time where everlasting love and commitment seem to be in such a short supply, I was hoping you would find it as meaningful as I did._  
  
The rest of the column was fully devoted to the letter. When Paris joined Rory for breakfast, she read the column before looking at anything else. "I'm glad that you decided to do this. You'll be getting a lot of mail from this letter. Oh, and I'll call Dan and see if he can get this published in the Sunday edition as well." **** Rory arrived at Boston on late Sunday night, which was 9 days after her vacation. As soon as she unlocked the apartment door Cleo came running to her. She rubbed against her leg and gave a big meow. Rory picked her up, "Well, a big hello to you too, Ms. Cleo!" Rory said brightly. She went and laid out some food for Cleo and she began eating, grateful that her neighbor, Elise, took care of Cleo. After she was done eating she found her favorite spot on the couch and fell asleep.  
  
After she finished unpacking and picking up her keys and mail from Elise, she made some coffee and popped in the John Coltrane CD she had bought shopping with Paris. She propped her feet on the coffee table and started looking through the mail. Groaning upon seeing only bills and junk mail, she lazily placed them on the table and got up to check her messages. There were 3 messages from Lorelai asking where the hell she was, and in the third one Lorelai remembered that she was vacationing, then immediately called her cell. There was one from Lane and another from Miss Patty. Deciding she was too tired to chat with any of them, she went into her bedroom and crawled into her bed. As soon as she felt the support of her pillow she drifted off to sleep. **** When she got back to work on Monday she was shocked by all the mail on her desk. There were about 200 letters and 50 more came with the postman that day. Paris had come by to check on her and when she saw the mail she said proudly," I told you so."  
  
Rory asked for all of her calls to be put on hold, and she started opening the overwhelming mail right away. Most of the letters were from women, but there were a decent number from men as well. She read how the letter had touched them all. A few women suggested that if the man was single, they wanted to marry him, and many asked her if she knew who the writer was.   
  
She discovered that almost every Sunday edition across the country had run this column, and letter came as far as Los Angeles. A few men claimed that they wrote the letter, but when she compared the handwriting she knew it wasn't them.  
  
For lunch she went to her favorite Chinese restaurant, and got comments from others dining there. "My wife taped it to the refrigerator," one man said, which made Rory laugh out loud. She made a mental note to inform Paris.  
  
By the end of the day she was almost done with the stack of letters and was about to take a break when her phone rang.   
  
It was the newspaper's receptionist, Susan.  
  
"Hey Rory. I know that you told me to hold your calls, which by the way may I say was very hard, you got about 65 calls today. But there is this one woman who keeps on calling. This is the sixth time she called me today and she called 3 times last week. By now, I even recognize her voice, but she won't give her name and she really wants to talk to you."  
  
"Can't you just take a message?"  
  
"I have tried to do that, several times, believe me, but she's persistent. She keeps telling me to put her on hold until you have a minute to talk with her. She says that she's calling long distance, and it's really important that she talks to you."  
  
"Can you give me a phone number of where I can reach her?"  
  
"No, she doesn't even want to tell me that."  
  
"Do you know what she wants, Susan?"  
  
"I have no clue. But she sounds coherent--unlike the other people who've been calling today. I mean one guy even proposed to me."  
  
At that Rory laughed, "Okay, tell her to hold on. I'll be there in a few."  
  
"Okie dokie."  
  
"Oh, what line is she on?"  
  
"Five."  
  
"Thanks, Susan."  
  
For some reason Rory was nervous to take this call. She chided herself, but the goose bumps along with that strange feeling wouldn't go away. It was then, that she picked up the phone, and took the call that that played a big part in her life. And she knew she was about to change…  
_  
To Be Continued… _**** ****

A/N: Whew! I don't think I've ever written a chapter this long. But stop smiling 'cause I'm not going to be writing long chapters like this anymore. No, no, no--too tiring for little me. How do all of you long- chapter -writer -people do it? Yes, I know that I'm very cruel leaving you hanging but my fingers were about to fall off. Anywhoo, I'm sorry to inform that the next update will **NOT** be anytime soon 'cause school has started. What? You say you want me to write more? Well, if somehow you can manage to close my school, I will gladly write more. Who is the letter from? How will it affect Rory? Will she meet another unexpected person? Well, you ill just have to wait and see. :D

So, what did you think of this so far? Like it? Hate it? Well, if you have the time please drop me a line and tell me what you think. It's greatly appreciated and who knows? The next chapter might come sooner. Thanks!

Priya :D


	3. Carpe Diem: Seize the Day

****

Disclaimer: The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me, they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. The story line that I'm using is from the book Message in a Bottle, by Nicholas Sparks, which I hold no ownership of either. I **will** use some other quotes and descriptions from it in this story. I'm directly quoting the letter from Message in a Bottle.

****

A/N: Oh, wow! I never expected to get so much feedback! Thanks so much! 

****

Facts: Okay, just some little things to point out: there is a medical school called Tufts University and there is a place called Corrib Pub Restaurant. They aren't that far apart from each other; but then again, I've never been there.

****

OT: Okay, I'm freaking out right now 'cause there is a bird stuck in my chimney, no, I'm not joking. Poor bird. 

****

Shout outs: Elise, my super-duper-checker-upper, thanks, babe. Thanks **Linda (chinkybrowneyes)** for awesome feedback. **Nate,** whose oh-so-vivid description about waves helped me out sooo much.:P

****

****

Chapter 3: Carpe diem: Seize the Day

Rory finally picked up the receiver and clicked on line five. "Hello?"

The line was silent for a few brief seconds. Then, in a crisp voice, the caller asked, "Is this Lorelai Leigh Gilmore?"

"Yes, it is. Actually, it's Rory--." She immediately cut herself off, knowing that if she continued she would start babbling about her mother's swollen ankles, chucking ice chips at the nurses, and swearing like a sailor. "How may I help you?"

The caller paused for another minute, but Rory could hear her breathing, as if she was contemplating of whether to continue. Then she spoke again, "Can you please tell me who sent that letter?"

Rory closed her eyes, and cracked a smile; just another curiosity seeker. She berated herself for being so nervous about the call. "I'm sorry, but I can't give that information out to anyone." 

"Please," begged the caller, "I need to know."

Rory's eyes grew wide. She could hear the desperation in her voice. She felt that there was something else there, too, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Convincing the woman would be hard; this was going to take a while. Aversely she answered, " I'm sorry, but I can't. That information is totally confidential. "

"Then can you answer a question for me?" asked the caller, her tone still hopeful.

"Depends on the question."

"Was the letter addressed to Christine by a man named Michael?"

The caller had Rory's full attention now. "Who is this?" she demanded with urgency, and by the time the words flew off her tongue, Rory knew that the caller had gotten her answer.

"It is them, isn't it?"

"Who is this?" asked Rory again, in a softer manner this time.

Taking a deep breath the caller answered, " My name is Jessica, and I live in Norfolk, Virginia."

"How do you know all about this? I mean the letter--Christine and Michael?" Rory managed to get out; her mind flying in all directions, all jumbled up.

"A year ago I was walking along the beach and found a letter similar to yours. After reading your column, I _knew_ it had to be the same person. Plus, the initials are the same. "

Rory's was frantic. Another letter? This was very odd. Biting her lip, a childhood habit, she asked, "Can you tell me on what kind of paper the letter was written on?"

"The paper is thick, beige colored, and it has a silhouette of a ship embossed in the upper right hand corner."

Rory's heart quickened. She couldn't believe it. "Jessica," she said slowly, "would it be possible for me to see this letter?"

"Sure," she replied, then added, "My husband has never seen the letter, but I keep it in a drawer. I take it out to read it sometimes. Isn't it amazing? I mean, me finding it a while ago, and now you finding one?"

"Yes," Rory whispered. "It is amazing."

After giving the fax number to Jessica, Rory couldn't stop squirming. After 10 minutes of waiting, the machine came to life and started copying the urgent message. She, then, immediately scooped up the pages that fell one by one into the tray.

Rory she flipped to the first page. A quick glance at the ship in the corner proved that it was the same writer--Michael. Inhaling slowly, she began to read.

****

__

March 6, 2006,

My Sweet Christine,

Where are you? And why, I wonder as I sit alone in the darkened house, have we been forced apart?

I don't know the answer to these questions, no matter how hard I try to understand. The reason is plain, but my mind forces me to dismiss it and I am torn by anxiety in all my waking hours. I am lost without you. I'm soulless, a drifter without a home, a solitary bird in flight to no where. This, baby, is my life without you. I long for you to show me how to live again.

I try to remember the way we were once, on the breezy deck of the Happenstance. Do you recall how we worked on her together? We became a part of the ocean as we rebuilt her, for we both knew it was the ocean that brought us together. It was times like those that I understood the meaning of true happiness. At night, we sailed on the blackened water and I watched as the moonlight reflected your beauty. I'd watch you with awe and know in my heart that we'd be together forever. Is it always that way, I wonder, when two people are in love? I don't know, but if my life since you were taken from me is any indication, then I think I know the answers. From now on, I know I will be alone.

I think of you, I dream of you, I conjure you up when I need you the most. This is all that I can do, but to me it isn't enough. It will never be enough, this I know, yet what else is there for me to do? If you were here, you would tell me. But I have been cheated even of that. You always knew the right words to ease the pain I felt. You always knew how to make me feel good inside.

Is it possible that you know how I feel without you? When I dream, I like to think you do. Before we came together, I moved through life without meaning, without reason. I know that somehow, every step I took since the moment I could walk was a step toward finding you. 

But now, alone in my house, I have come to realize that destiny can hurt a person as much as it can bless him, and I find myself wondering why---out of all these people in all the world I could ever loved---I had fallen in love with someone who was taken away from me.

Michael

****

After finishing, she leaned back into her leather chair and brought a hand to her head. All that she could hear was the ticking of the clock. The office seemed to be far away; all her thoughts were on the letter. She scrambled around looking for her purse. Upon finding it under her desk, she took out the initial letter, and laid the two next to each other. She read the first letter again, followed by the second one, and then she read them in reverse order. A queasy feeling washed over her, and she felt like she was eavesdropping on a special or private moment that she shouldn't be a part of. She felt like an outsider. 

The warmth began to overwhelm her body and she started perspiring. A drink. Yes, she needed a drink; that would make her feel as if she wasn't unraveled. Getting up, she made her way towards the vending machine frantically searching her pockets for cash. Coins. Any monetary substance would do. She just _needed_ something cool. Sighing at her useless search, she started up to her office, when she saw the bathroom. Sink. Water. The words ran through her minds and she made a mad dash for the bathroom. There, she turned on the faucet. She cupped the liquid in her hands, and splashed her face, only stopping after the whole counter was flooding with water. The cool water beads felt glorious against her flushed face.

Quickly returning to the office, she tried to comprehend her feelings. Her legs became wobbly as she plopped down in her chair; if she hadn't been standing at the right place, she would've hit the floor.

A little more than a week ago she had found the first letter, and the words had left her a deep imprint, however, the pragmatist forced her to put it behind of her or rather forget it. Though, now that was impossible, for she had found another letter, which was likely to be written by the same person. She wanted to know more about the letters and the man who wrote them. Who was he? Were there more letters? Why would he send them in bottles? It seemed miraculous to Rory that another person had found a letter about a year ago, and had it hidden away safely in a drawer because it touched her too. But all of these things _were_ real; they _had _happened. Now the big question on Rory's mind was what did all this mean?

After a few more moments of looking at the letters, she carefully stowed them away in her purse and turned to her monitor. Blankly staring at the screen, she knew that she wasn't going to get any work done and started tapping her desk with her fingernails in a random pattern. Letting out a light sigh, she exited her program and logged on to the Internet. Choosing the search engine, _Google, _she typed the words Wrighstville Beach into the search box and clicked enter. 

The letters still in her mind, the opening line of the second one kept flashing back to her.

__

Where are you?

Scanning through the list and eliminating the useless information, her eyes landed on topics that she could actually choose from.

****

1. Show Map of Wrightsville Beach NC

2. Wilmington, Wrightsville Beach, and Topsail Island, NC -photo…

... Wrightsville Beach, Discover the Cape Fear River region and you will  
want to stay here forever. These photo tours feature the areas ... 

3. The Beach Cam, live from the Blockade Runner Beach Resorts

... The Beach Cam. ... Wrightsville Beach is minutes from historic Wilmington NC and is  
easily accessible from Interstate 95/ Interstate 40 and Wilmington Airport. ... 

As she sat there, staring at the screen she felt ridiculous. Even if Michael lived in the Wrightsville area it would be nearly impossible to locate him. Why, then, was she trying to do so?

And, of course, Rory knew the reason. A man who loved a woman deeply wrote the letter, and now he--Michael was alone. As a girl, she had come to believe in the ideal man--the prince or the knight of her stories. Yes, she believed in Prince Charming. She had always had a crush on him, not the Cinderella one, but the Sleeping Beauty one…because he could dance. And to this day, she was still waiting for her Prince Charming.

However, in the real world men like those simply didn't exist. Real people had real schedules, real rules, and real demands.

All in all, she knew that there was still a man who was still here who loved someone with all his heart. His lover, Christine, was either dead or missing without an explanation. Yet Michael still loved her enough to send her messages--in bottles. If nothing else, Michael had proven that he was capable of loving someone fully, and, more important, remaining fully committed--even if the woman he loved was gone. 

__

Where are you?

That phrase kept ringing through her head, like a song stuck in her head. 

__

Where are you?

She didn't know exactly, but she knew that he did exist and was real. She had learned from previous experiences that if something caught her attention in a profound way, she should learn more about it. She had gone on with her life wondering too much about what could have been, and she didn't want to do that anymore. She wanted to take a risk. Take a chance.

Feeling more reassured she pulled out her palm pilot to see her plans for night; the words "meet Lane at 7 in Corrib Pub Restaurant" were flashing on the screen. When she glanced up at her main calendar to double check her appointment, something in the corner caught her eye. It was the phrase of the day printed in bold letters: _"Carpe Diem!"_. It was Latin. Finally the years of taking those wretched foreign language classes would pay off. She racked her mind, searching for its translation--seize. Yes, it was seize...but seize what? She got up from her chair to peer more closely at the translation, which was given in smaller print: Seize the day; live in the present. At that, she gave a wry smile and snapped shut the compact, getting ready to meet with Lane.

Seize the day. But where would all this lead? What did it mean? Was the discovery of the letter in some way fated, or was it just a coincidence? Or maybe, it was a reminder of what she was missing in her life? 

__

Where are you? 

The words rolled around in her head. 

This much was sure, that she would never find out all the answers to her questions if she didn't want to learn. Rory Gilmore was no chicken…but she was. 

****

7:09.

Read her silver plaited watch. Lane was late again, but Rory didn't blame her. Lane went to Tufts University School of Medicine in Boston, and, frankly, med. school sucked. God knows how she convinced her mother, or maybe God himself convinced Mamma Kim. Lane had really gone out to get into that school, the late night crammings, and walking around like a zombie from the lack of sleep. She really deserved to go there. However, Mrs. Kim still denied the fact that she performed a miracle by letting her go there. Mrs. Kim no longer referred to Lane as the "rebellious anti-Quaker child", but was now moving on. Moving on meant that was trying to move Lane's life along by searching for the perfect Korean prospects for her. Now, beaten down and just plain tired, Lane wanted to have some fun. 

Though the girls talked frequently on the phone, they didn't get to see each other very often, and Rory was very excited about their meeting tonight. 

7:19. 

Ten minutes had passed since Rory last checked the time. She got up from the bench in front of the Pub, and lazily sauntered over to the corner of the restaurant, skimming the crowded streets for the familiar face. After seeing nothing, she went ands sat back down with a defeated look. Just as she grabbed her cell to call Lane, a voice called her from behind.

"Rory!" yelled, the petite raven-haired girl, frantically scurrying towards Rory. By the time Lane had reached Rory, her cheeks were red and she collapsed onto the bench. "I'm so sorry. I'm late again," she cried, trying to ease her breathing.

Rory smiled. "It's okay, Lane. The important part is that you're here now…beside me." Rory cleared her throat. " Lane, you're really, really beside me." She motion to their position; Lane practically sitting in Rory's lap.

"Oh, right." Lane smiled sheepishly, and immediately scooted farther from Rory. Just at that moment, Rory realized there was something on Lane's face, and the lighting wasn't helping her decipher what it was. She inched closer, her nose almost touching Lane's nose.

"Man, Rory!" Clearly, Lane was taken aback and uncomfortable. "What--what is it?"

Whispering," There. Is. Something. On. Your. Face." Rory immediately swatted Lane's right check, fiercely.

"Ow!" she yelped, pushing Rory away from her. Her hand flew to her cheek and she began rubbing it; it was a blazing shade of red. "What the hell was that for?" This time, Lane's hands darted to her mouth, covering it up.

"It's okay, Lane. You mother didn't hear you use the word 'hell'. You aren't sinful," comforted Rory. Then realizing what she had just done she squealed, "Oh my God! "I'm so sorry!" she apologized meekly. "Lane! I--I thought there was like a bug on your face!"

"Oh, and you couldn't just flick it off? You had to do a full on Sumo-wrestler-metal-arm-bitch-slap?"

Once more, Rory apologized, "Lane, I thought it was a spider or something. You know how much I hate spiders. They're so icky, and fuzzy, and have eight legs...And, and… you know about myarachnophobia!"

"Sure, blame everything on your arachnophobia . The economy. Destiny's Child breaking up." 

"They broke up?"

"No. Personal satisfaction."

"Ah."

"Blame all the other crap in the world on youarachnophobia!" She paused and in a softer tone ordered," But first, check to make sure what it really was."

Rory looked closely at her smooth cheek, which glowed red. "Oh… it was only a pimple. I'm so sorry. Well you know what the say…Uh, pimples and fluorescent lightning do not go well together." Rory's pathetic attempt for a joke backfired and caused Lane to be more irritated. 

She started digging through her purse for some cover-up, and Rory's eyes grew wide upon seeing how the make-up overflowed in her bag. "God, RuPaul doesn't need that much make-up."

Looking up Lane rolled her eyes. "Says the girl who gel penned her whole face until she looked like flashing, neon bill board."

Rory winced at that horrible memory. "Right. I'll shut up now."

"Is that better?" asked Lane, a few minutes later. She capped her cover-up and zipped her purse.

"Yeah, now it only looks like glowing volcano glazed with mud." Rory smiled sweetly, stifling her laugh.

"Hey! Comments from the peanut gallery aren't necessary."

Dusting off her pants, Rory walked towards the door and, as usual, Lane following her closely. She smiled, and turned to see that Lane was radiating as well. And, no, not her check but her smile; it always lit everything up. She was glad to see her friend again, and knew that tonight was going to be an eventful night.

****

The Corrib Pub was one of their favorite places to eat. It was a Victorian style meeting place, consisting of a dining area and a separate bar. It wasn't that far away from either of them, plus, it had great food. After ordering, they waited patiently and caught up. Finally, after Lane had stopped asking their waiter if he was related to Martha Stewart, they headed into the bar part of the restaurant. Rory spilled all the details to Lane about her vacation, and the letters that she found. Immediately she had Lane's full attention, her brown eyes sparkled with liveliness. 

"Oh wow!" squealed Lane, squirming in her seat, the slap incident totally forgotten. "This is so exciting! This could be made up into one of those romantic novels." In a husky voice she started using her hands to bring what she was saying into life. I think I'm going to wet my pants."

"Because it's exciting?"

"No, because I have consumed one too many Shirley Temples," explained Lane. Then she quickly got up and ran towards the bathroom. When she returned she was still in full spirited, "Okay, while I was in the bathroom I did some serious thinking."

"You did serious thinking while you were tinkling," Rory put extra emphasis on that word, "in the bathroom? Oh, this ought to be good. Do continue," she prompted, popping a mint into he mouth and offering Lane one.

"Well, all we ever do is mope around and pretend like we have a life. We work; we sleep, then work again, and sleep some more. That's it. How boring is that? But not tonight. This is going to be our night, Rory Gilmore. We're going to celebrate--I don't know what yet, but give me a minute. We're gonna cut loose. Tonight, we're gonna kiss some boys," finished Lane with gusto, pumping her fist up in the air.

"Lane, what are you on?"

"Oh, come on, Rory. What ever happened to "carpe diem"? What ever happened to Latin?"

"It's dead. And, you know why it's dead? Because it gives crazy people crazy ideas."

"I'm not crazy. But I am happy, and love Latin because it makes you, my dear, sweet friend, think about things…like infatuation, mystery, and romance." By now Lane's eyes had stars in them.

"Are you alluding that Latin should be the language of love? If you are, then I'm sorry to inform you, Lane, that the suggestion box is closed. Once again, the language is dead!"

"Ha! Latin be the language of love?" she started chuckling. "I'll prefer French thank you. J'aime le français," Lane pronounced perfectly. Then she let out another chuckle at the thought of Latin being the language of love. 

"Oui, oui. I too love French," agreed Rory, nodding her head. Then smiling mischievously added, "Rident stolidi verba Latina." 

"What's that mean?" questioned Lane, eyeing Rory.

"Ovid was stupid."

"That means Ovid was stupid?" asked Lane, amused.

"No. It means 'fools laugh at the Latin language'. And, Ovid said it."

"Why is he stupid?" 

" 'Cause I say so." 

"Wow, anarchy suits you well," teased Lane, twirling a piece of hair.

"Thank you."

"And, a fool? Oh, Rory," Lane feigned mock terror, " how could you say that I'm a fool? "

"Because you laugh at the Latin language," she retorted, bluntly. 

"And that makes me a fool?"

"Clearly."

"A fool, huh?"

"Not only a fool, but a hypocritical fool." 

"You are crude."

"And, you, my dear, are a hypocritical fool." Rory gave a sweet smile. "Loving the language one minute, and mocking it the next."

"Hypocrisy is the way of life."

"So is procrastination," chimed in Rory.

"Solidarity sister!" Chorused the girls in unison, clanging their glasses together.

Lane looked around the spacious room. "I still wanna kiss some boys."

"Which boys?" 

"I dunno," shrugged Lane, "But I'm sure we'll find one--Oh, and there he is!" She stopped a guy who was walking past them." Oh, hi. Excuse me, sir. I know this may seem a bit forward," cautioned Lane looking at Rory who was giving her a perforating glare, "but, um, would you kiss my friend here?"

The man just stood there for a while running his eyes hungrily over Rory's lithe form before responding. "Okay."

Rory was flabbergasted. Her jaw fell at the absurdity of the whole situation," Uh, you know, I'd love to make-out with you but…," she quickly searched for a good excuse," until my tongue completely heals--I-I think it's too risky. Sorry." 

She gave Lane a sharp kick under the table and Lane winced and gave her a questioning look," Oh, right." Rory was motioning for her to help out. "There was a piercing incident with the--it was bad."

****

The girls burst out the door, gales of laughter following. "I can't believe you asked that question!"

"Well, it's not totally my fault--I'm stressed, and I enjoy seeing you squirm."

Rory pointed out, "So did Atila."

"The Hun?"

"Oh, he was no honey, but yes, that was his name." Rory laughed at her joke, and stopped when she saw Lane giving her an impassable stare. She mumbled an apology, "Sorry, bad joke."

Lane rolled up her sleeve to glance at her watch. "Okay, Rory, I have to get going now. Mamma will be calling soon, and she's planted a GPS in my cell phone."

"GPS?"

"Yes. GPS. A global positioning system."

"In your cell?" Rory was amazed.

"Yep." Lane pulled her phone out of her bag, and showed it to Rory. "Fascinating. So she knows where you are all the time? Isn't that creepy?" Rory brought her hands towards Lane, and in an eerie voice whispered, "She's watching you!"

"What do you do when you need to be somewhere else at that time? I just leave the cell at my apartment, and tell her I was praying, and I could not interrupt my prayers."

Rory raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "And she actually believes that?"

"No. Then again, I've really never tested out that excuse because I've always been in my apartment when she has called."

"Aww, Lane, you're such a good little girl. If I were you're mother, I'd be proud," Rory teased. 

Lane rolled her eyes," Oh, shut your pie hole, Rory." Taking another glance at her watch Lane spoke hastily, "Okay, well, I'll catch you soon?" 

"Definitely!" Then Rory's eyes light up; she slapped herself on the forehead, realizing she had forgotten to tell Lane something.

"Careful, Rory. You don't wanna leave an imprint…That hand of yours is sharp today."

Rory sighed. "Totally forgot. Mom is coming over to visit this weekend. Do you think you can swing by?" She requested hopefully.

"Mmm, a Lorelai weekend. Wackiness anticipated. Sure, I'll try." Giving Rory a quick hug Lane left and disappearing, blending in with the blur of the city.

****

Back in the comfort of her bed, Rory went over the course of the events. The main point was finding a second letter. She thought about all the research that she had done and all the risks that she said she would take. But deep down that she knew that those would lead to nothing at all. This would just become something of the past--a miraculous story that she would always remember but do nothing about. Lane's speech--Carpe diem, now meant nothing to her. Life would go as it did every day. She would write her columns, spend time with her friends and family, and do all the things that she needed to do. 

__

And she was almost right. Life would have proceeded on just as she had imagined. But something happened three days later that caused her to jump into the deep seas of the unknown with only a bag full of clothes and some paper that might not mean anything at all.

She found a third letter from Michael.

****

__

To Be Continued….

****

That's all, folks. I know, I know, I'm extremely evil! What can I say? I'm a sadist. Well, a very mild form of one. More to come soon. 

Since tomorrow is my birthday, (Yes! I'm finally 14!!! One more year till I can get my driving permit! Whoo-hoo!!) I decided to drop this little surprise. Okay, here is my birthday list, and you supply even one of things on this list, I will worship you forever:

The Hotass (aka Tristan) to jump out from a birthday cake. Preferably, only wearing boxers. To receive a snazzy car, a snazzy house, and a check for a snazzy million dollars. For the damn bird, who is stuck in my chimney and is freaking me out, to get out of my chimney. To get a new computer because Fred, my current computer, is being a butt. To get feedback for this chapter, good or bad. But only if you're in a generous mood or have the time. You'll make the birthday girl happy, and I just might dance for you! 

Priya :D


	4. Out of My Head into My Heart

**Disclaimer:** The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me; they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. The story line that I'm using is from the book Message in a Bottle, by Nicholas Sparks, which I hold no ownership of either. I **will** use some other quotes and descriptions from it in this story. I'm have slightly altered the third letter from Message in a Bottle, but quoted some things directly from the story of Poalina and Ake, and somewhat how Rory and Paris find Michael. 

**Author's Note: **Hey, all! Remember this story? Yes, yes. I too agree that it has been neglected far too long. And since birthdays are coming up, I decided to give my magic key board a spin. Ah, this took too long to write. I need some advil.

**Shot-outs:  **This chapter is for the lovely **Chris**! Happy 18th, love! Don't get _too _friendly with those strippers.And the fantabulous **Naters**. Have an amazing sweatyParis birthday, darling!

****

**::Chapter 4: Out of My Head (into My Heart)::**

The day Rory found the third letter she had of course expected nothing unusual. It was a typical midsummer's day in Boston—hot, humid, with the same news that usually accompanied the weather. 

                Rory was in the newsroom, researching a topic on autistic children. She had to admit, _The_ _Boston Times had an excellent database of articles published in previous years from a variety of magazines. Through her computer she could also access the library at Harvard University or Boston University. In a couple of hours she had found over 30 articles that had been published in journals she had never heard of, and seven of the articles looked interestingly enough to possibly use. Since she would be passing Harvard on the way home, she could pick them up._

                As she was about to leave, a thought crossed her mind. _Why not? she questioned herself. __I've got nothing to lose. She accessed the Harvard database once more, and hesitantly typed in the words: Message in a Bottle. _

                Because the articles in the library were indexed by subject or headline, she thought it would be best to scan for the headlines and speed up her search a bit. The response surprised her—a dozen different articles had been written on this topic over the past couple of years. Most of these were published in scientific journals, and their titles seemed to suggest that bottles were being used in various endeavors to learn about oceans currents. Even though she didn't find what she was looking for, she jotted the titles of these articles, deciding to pick them up, as well. 

                The traffic was slower and heavier than usual, and it took her longer than she expected to get to the library and copy the nine articles she wanted. She got home pretty late, and after ordering from the local Chinese restaurant, she lay sprawled on the floor with the three articles on messages in bottles in front of her.

                An article published in _Yankee_ magazine in May of the previous year was the one she picked up first. It talked about the history of bottles, how they make their journeys, and related it to some messages found washed up in New England. Some of the letters that had been found were truly memorable. Rory especially enjoyed the story of Poalina and Ake Viking. 

                Poalina's father had found a message in a bottle sent by Ake, a young Swedish sailor. Ake, who had grown bored during one of his many trips at sea, asked for nay pretty woman to write back to him. The father gave it Poalina, who in turn wrote to Ake. One letter led to another, and when Ake finally traveled to Sicily to meet her, they realized how much they loved each other. They married shortly.

                Stories like these warmed Rory's heart. Even though there was a one in a million chance that something like that was going to happen to her, she held on to that lonely one tightly. Once again, they seemed like fantasies—fairytales, and she wanted something just as magical. 

                At the end of the article, there were two paragraphs that told of yet another message that had washed up on the beaches of Long Island: 

_Most messages sent by bottles usually ask the finder to response once with a little hop of a life long correspondence. Sometimes, however, the senders do not want a response. One such letter, a moving tribute to lost love, was discovered washed up on __Long Island__ last year. In part it read: _

_"Without you in my arms, I feel an emptiness in my soul. I find myself searching the crowds for your face—I know it is impossibility, but I cannot help myself. My search for you is a never-ending quest that is doomed to fail. You and I had talked about what would happen if we were forced apart by circumstances, but I cannot keep the promise I made to you that night. I'm sorry, darling, but there will never be another to replace you. The words I whispered to you were folly, and I should've realized it then. You—and you alone—have always been the only thing I wanted, and now that you are gone, I have no desire to find another. Even though we never were married, I have come to believe that you are my soul mate and forever will be. Till death do us part, we whispered together on your deathbed, and I've come to believe that the words will ring true until they day finally comes when I, too, am taken away from this world."_

She stopped slurping her noodle, and abruptly put her chopsticks down. _It can't be! _She found that she couldn't take her eyes off the words. _It's simply not possible…But…but…who else could it be?_

She wiped her brow, aware that her hands were now shaking. _Another letter? _She flipped to the front of the article and took a close name at the author's name: Arthur Shendakin, Ph.D., a professor of history at Boston College, meaning…_he must live in the area. _

                Without giving a thought to what she was doing, she jumped up and retrieved the phonebook on the stand near the dining room table. She thumbed through the S's looking for Shendakin. To her surprise there were a dozen or so Shendakin's listed, but only two had "A" listed for the first initial. She glanced at her watch: nine thirty. Late, but not too late. As she punched in the numbers, she felt a queasy churning in her stomach. 

                The first time, a woman picked up and told her that she had the wrong number. Rory apologized, and noticed that when she hung up, her throat was dry. She went into the kitchen, and got herself a cool glass of water. After drinking deeply, she picked up the phone again. Making sure she dialed the right number, she waited while the phone rang. One. Two. Three. 

Maybe he wasn't home, she thought. Just as she was about to hang up, a man answered, "Hello?" By the sound of his voice, she thought he would be in his sixties. 

Clearing her throat, she wished that she had pushed the lump down, and would be able to talk. "Hello. This is Rory Gilmore from the _Boston Times_. Is this Mr. Arthur Shendakin?"

"Yes, this is he," he replied, sounding surprised. 

_Keep calm_, she instructed herself. "Oh, hi. I was just calling to find out if this is the same Arthur Shendakin who published an article in _Yankee magazine last year about messages in bottles."_

"Yes. I wrote that. How can I help you?"

Her hand felt sweaty against the receiver. "I was curious about one of your messages you said that was washed up on Long Island. Do you remember which one I'm talking about?"

"May I ask why you want to know?"

"Well," she began, uncertain of what to say, "the _Times _is thinking about doing an article on the same topic. And I was wondering if you could help me obtain a copy of that letter?" 

She winced at her own lie, but how would the truth have sounded? _Oh, hi. I'm infatuated with this mysterious man who keeps on sending messages in bottles. I think I've developed a crush on him. Yes, this was the man that I've never met before in my life, nor have I ever heard his voice, yet I'm crazy about him. I was wondering is you could give me that letter, so I can calm the pyro maniac inside of me by seeing if he actually wrote it?_

He answered slowly. "Well, I'm not certain. That letter inspired me to write those articles…I'd really have to think about it."

Rory's throat tightened. "So you have the letter?"

"Yes. I found it washed up on Long Island beach a year ago, like the article says."

"I know this is an unusual request, Mr. Shendakin, but I'll let you know that if you let us use the letter…" she trailed off, not knowing what to say. Then a thought crossed her mind: money. Everyone wants money. "We'd be happy to pay you a small sum. And we don't need the actual letter. We're just asking for a copy. That way, you're not losing anything. You're actually profiting something."

"Exactly how much are we talking about?"

Rory smiled. The old man had taken the bait. "Um, we're willing to pay three hundred dollars, and of course, you'll be properly credited for finding the letter." 

He paused for a moment, considering the offer. Rory chimed back in just in time before he could reject. "I know that you're worried about the similarity to your article and the one that the newspaper prints, Mr. Shendakin. But I assure you, they will be very different. We're going to be writing about the directions that bottles travel in—you know, ocean currents, disturbances, and all that. We just want some letter that will provide human interest stories for our readers." She was pleased with her response.

"Well…I'm still not sure."

"Please, Mr. Shendakin. It would mean a lot to me."

He was silent for a minute. "Just a copy?"

Rory smiled triumphantly. "Yes. Just a copy. I can give you my fax number or you can send it. Should I make the check out to you?" 

He paused before replying. "I—I guess so." It seemed as though he was now trapped into a tight corner by Rory Gilmore and her sharp talking. 

"Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Shendakin." Before he had any chance to change his mind, Rory gave him her fax, took his address, and made a note in her palm pilot to pick the cash. She thought it might be a bit suspicious if she sent him a personal check. 

_The damn letter better be worth three hundred dollars_, she thought, and in fact, it would be.

****

                The next day, after calling to notify Mr. Shendakin that his money had been sent, Rory left for work with her mind buzzing with excitement.

                She thought of Michael all last night, trying to picture what he'd look like, imagining what he liked to do. She didn't understand what she was feeling, but she finally chose to let the letter decide. If the letter wasn't from Michael, she would end this all now. There was no need to torture herself any longer. And if she found her still obsessing over the letters, she would throw them away. Curiosity was fine as long as it didn't take over your life—she wasn't going to let that happen. 

                When she got to her office, she ran towards the fax machine. And there was the answer to the course of her life. She picked up the three pages, and when she looked at them more closely, the first thing she noticed—as she had with the first two letters—was the sailing ship embossed din the upper right hand corner. But this letter was shorter than the others, just like her decision would be made.  

****

                                _January 19, 2006___

_Dear Christine,_

_                Happy Birthday, darling. I don't know whether to laugh and celebrate the day you came into this earth, or cry and mourn over your loss because this was the day you were taken away from me. _

_A month has passed since I've written, but it seemed to pass much more slowly. Life passes by now like the scenery outside a car window. I breathe and eat and sleep, as I always did, but there seems to be no great purpose in my life that requires active participation on my part. I simply drift along like the messages I write to you I do not know where I'm going or when I will get there. _

_Even work does not take the pain away. I may be diving for my own pleasure or showing others how to do so, but when I return to the shop, it seems empty without you. I stock and order as I always did, but even now, I sometimes glance over my shoulder without thinking and call for you. As I write this note, I wonder when, or if, things like that will stop. _

_Without you in my arms, I feel an emptiness in my soul. I find myself searching the crowds for your face—I know it is impossibility, but I cannot help myself. My search for you is a never-ending quest that is doomed to fail. You and I had talked about what would happen if we were forced apart by circumstances, but I cannot keep the promise I made to you that night. I'm sorry, darling, but there will never be another to replace you. The words I whispered to you were folly, and I should've realized it then. You—and you alone—have always been the only thing I wanted, and now that you are gone, I have no desire to find another. Even though we never were married, I have come to believe that you are my soul mate and forever will be. Till death do us part, we whispered together on your deathbed, and I've come to believe that the words will ring true until they day finally comes when I, too, am taken away from this world._

_                                Michael_

_****_

                Rory knocked the door and poked her head through the opening. "Hey, Paris. Do you have a minute?"

                Paris looked up from the computer, and then glanced at her watch. "Sure, but make it quick. I have to get to my yoga class soon."

                Rory's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Yoga? Really?"

                Paris responding annoyed, "Yes. Yoga. And keep the smirking to a minimum. Jess thinks that I get stressed out way too easily, so he signed me up for classes."

                "And you gave in that easily?"

                "Well, you don't understand the circumstances, Rory. You see, I tried puttin—" 

                Rory laughed. "He denied you sex, right?"

                "I can't believe you think so low of me. That is a huge insult on my behalf, not to mention how demeaning it is to my ego. Do you actually think I would do something so horrendous?" she stopped abruptly, and then reluctantly admitted, "Yeah, he did."

                "Who would have thought?" Rory mused out loud. "Paris Gellar, a sex addict."

                "This really isn't going to help you get what you want, Rory," Paris stated, irritated.

                "What can I say? I take pleasure in your discomfort."

                "Oh, the tables will turn soon, my dear friend. 

                "Speaking of tables turning, let me tell you a yoga story about my mom. I'm sure it'll boost your morale."

                Paris took a seat. She had grown accustomed to Lorelai stories. 

                "A few years back Mom broke her leg during yoga class. The headstand portion took a very ugly turn. There was no other place to kick up on, so my mother, the lady with less common sense that a mole, decided to use the table. The good thing was she brought the smug, blonde, pretzel chick down with her. Since then she's learned that she's a bit too competitive for yoga."

                "I assume that's also the story behind her "yoga kills" t-shirt."

                "How do you know about her shirt?" Rory asked, curious.

                Paris bent down and picked something out of her bag. She held up a "yoga kills" t-shirt. "Jess must've told Luke about my classes, and Luke, Lorelai. This arrived in the mail today. At least someone feels my pain."

                "She'll be giving a lot more pain to feel this weekend."

                "Oh, that's right. She's coming over." Paris looked at the time again. "So what's up? What did you need to talk to me about?"

                Their light banter almost made Rory forget about the intention of her visit. She quickly took out the three letters and laid them on Paris' desk without speaking. Paris picked them up one by one, her eyes widening in surprise. 

                "Where did you get these other two letters?"

                Rory explained how she came across them. After reading the letters one by one, all Paris could say was, "I can't believe you paid that old geezer three hundred dollars! What were you thinking?"

                "That's the thing, I wasn't thinking at all. I was just making up everything on the spot."

                Paris picked up the letters again, "You've certainly been keeping a secret, haven't you?"

                Rory shrugged, and Paris went on. "But there's more to just finding these letters, isn't there?" Rory shrugged again. "You want tell me something, don't you?"

                Rory cracked. "Stop it with the "haven't you", "isn't there", "don't you" interrogation!"

                "You either want my help or you don't. Pick now because I have an appointment with my inner self soon."

                Rory sighed before admitting, "Yes, Paris. I need your help." Even though the girls were as close as they could be, there was till some tension between them.

                "That's much better. Now, from where I see it," Paris said with a sly smile, "you didn't come in here because you found these letters. You came in here because you like this Michael dude."

                Rory winced at the word "dude" coming from Paris' mouth. She raised her hand, as if seeking approbation from Paris before speaking. "Request."

                "Yes?"

                "Please don't say "dude". It really doesn't suit you."

                Rolling her eyes, Paris continued, "Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, because you don't approve of my choice of words, which by the way, are _my_ choice of words. I can say anything I please thanks to the 1st Amendment, which clearly states the right of freedom of speech. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's continue on my analysis of how you have fallen for Michael, and what steps we'll take, shall we?"

                Rory gulped and nodded her head obediently. There was no stopping Paris when she got riled up about something.

                "So now what?" asked Rory, tapping her fingers impatiently. 

                Paris looked up from the letters, and there was a twinkle in her eye. "You want to know what I think?"

                "Do I have a choice?"

                "I think you should go to Wilmington and find Michael."

                "That's ridiculous, Paris. Even to me—"

                "Why?"

                "For one, I don't know anything about him."

                "Rory, you know a great deal more about Michael than some poor girl in India, who sees her groom the night of the wedding, all because her parents believe in arranged marriages. And besides, I'm not telling you to marry him; I'm just telling you to go find him. You may find out that you don't like him at all, but at least you'll know, won't you? I mean, what can it hurt?"

                "What if…" She paused and Paris finished her sentence.

                "What if he's not what you imagined? Rory, I can guarantee he's not what you're imagining already. No one ever is. But to my mind, this shouldn't make any difference in your decision. If you want to find out more, just go then. If you don't, then stay. The worst thing that could happen is he isn't your Prince Charming. And what would you do then? You come back home, but with your answer. Really, how bad would that be? Probably not as bad as what you're going through right now." 

                "You don't think this is crazy?"

                "Look, Rory, I might sound like a sap right now, but I've wanted you to start dating other people, especially after your break-up with Seth. You two were together for a long time, I understand that, but you need to move on. Now, I'm not saying to marry Michael, but I want you to pick up your life. I'm not sure how this whole Michael thing will work out, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try. If everyone who thought they would fail didn't try, where would we be right now?"

                Rory was silent for a moment. "You're being too logical about this. How'd you learn to talk like that?"

                "Oprah."

                Rory smiled a little. "I don't know, Paris."

                Paris shrugged off her protests. "Rory, you are in a really wonderful situation. There's no downside for you, so don't blow this out of proportion. If you want to go, go. If you don't, don't. It's as simple as that."

                Rory was a little stunned. "Okay, we seriously need to cut weed out of your diet."

                Laughing Paris replied, "Don't be so shocked, Rory. I've been through a lot too, and I have learnt a lot."

                "What about my column?" 

                "We still have that column that you wrote but never published, because you used the letter instead. After that, we can run a couple of repeats from last year. 

                "You make it sound so easy."

                "It is easy. The hard part will be finding him. But I'm sure we have enough information in the letters to help us out."

                "So, how do we start?"

                Paris let out something that sounded like a little squeal. "This is so exciting. I've always wanted to be a detective or something when I was little, but my mother took away all my books and kits. She said they were too much. Ugh. I hate her. I mean reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work or learning how to color code your sock drawer the right way."

                "Funny," Rory uttered, "my mother always said rich people have hilarious sock drawers."

                "Okay," Paris cleared her throat, "enough distractions. First of, I think it's safe to say that his real name is Michael. That's how he signed all the letters. I don't think he would have bothered using a name other than his own. He might have done so with one letter, but with three letters, I'm pretty sure it's either his first name of his middle. Either way, it's the name he's known by."

                "And," Rory added, "he's probably in Wilmington, or Wrightsville Beach, or another community close by."

                Paris nodded. "In all his letters he talks about the ocean or ocean themes, and of course, that's where he throws the bottles from. From the tone of his letters, it seems he writes them when he gets lonely or is thinking about Christine."

                "That's what I thought. And, in the third letter, he mentioned that Christine's birthday and death day were on the same day, January 19th.  He both loves and hates this day. It's his gift and his curse. So we know for sure that Christine is dead."

                "Or maybe," Paris thought, "he might say her death day because that's the day they broke up or something. But I'm pretty confident, that she's not in this world anymore."

                Paris was getting more and more excited as they went on. "There was a boat mentioned…"

                "Happenstance," Rory spat out quickly. "The letters said that they restored it together and used to sail on it. It's probably a sail boat then."

                "Write that down," Paris instructed, giving Rory a pad of paper. "We can get more information from here. Maybe there's a place that registers boats names. I think I can call the paper down there to find out."

                "It also looks like he owns a scuba diving shop where he and Christine used to work." 

                "That's another thing to write down. Anything else?"

                "Not that I can think of."

                "Well, it's a good beginning. This might be easier than we think. Let's start making some of these calls."

                "What about your yoga class?"

                "Screw yoga. I heard it kills."

                The first place that Paris called was the _Wilmington Journal_, the paper that served that area. She identified herself and asked to speak with someone who was familiar with boating. After a couple of transfers she found herself talking to someone who covered sports fishing and other ocean sports. All she got from him was that boats were not registered by names.

                "That was a dead end," Rory said quietly.

                Paris put her hand over the receiver and whispered, "Maybe. Maybe not."

                After thanking the man for helping them, Paris hung up and looked at the list of clues again. She thought for a moment, then decided to call information for scuba-diving shops in the Wilmington area. Rory watched as Paris wrote down the name and numbers of all the shops in that area. 

                "What are you going to do when you call?" questioned Rory.

                "I'm going to ask for Michael," Paris stated simply. 

                Rory's heart skipped a beat. "Just like that?"

                "Just like that," she explained, smiling as she dialed. Paris motioned for Rory to pick up the other extension, just in case it was Michael. They waited, and were disappointed to find out that the Atlantic Adventures wasn't his shop. They went through five more shops, and six must've been their lucky number. 

                Paris asked each person picking up the same question. Expecting the same answer, she was surprised when the person on the line hesitated for a minute.

                "Are you talking about Michael DuGrey?"

                _Michael._

Rory nearly fell off her chair at the sound of his name. _Michael._ She didn't like that name. Why couldn't he be named something else? Chiding herself, she listened to Paris talk to the man.

                "He's with Island Diving. Are you sure we can't help you? We've got some classes coming up soon."

                "No, I'm sorry. I really want to work with Michael. Thanks for the offer, though."

                "We're getting close!" Rory let out a gleeful squeal. 

                "Much better than yoga." Paris called information again and got the number for the ship registry in Wilmington. After dialing, she told the woman on the line, "My husband and I were vacationing down there," she said with such confidence that Rory almost believed it to be true, "when out boat broke down. This nice man helped us get back to shore. His name was Michael DuGrey, and I think the name of his boat was _Happenstance_, but I wanted to make sure since I'm writing a story. 

                Paris went on, refusing to let go of the woman. She told her how scared she had been, and recalled the fond memories of what it meant to her. Then, after flattering the woman about how nice people were in the South and Wilmington in particular and how she wanted to do a story on southern hospitality and the kindness of strangers, the woman was more than willing to help. "Since you're verifying the information, and not asking for something that you don't know, I'm sure it won't be a problem."

                The woman clarified that all was true about Michael and his boat. Paris thanked the woman profusely and asked for her name, so she could be included in the "article". 

                "Michael DuGrey," she said with a victorious smile. "So we finally know his name."

                Rory was in a daze. "I can't believe you found him."

                "Believe it." Paris picked up the phone again.

                "Now whoa re you calling?"

                "My travel agency. 

                "I didn't even say I was going yet, Paris."

                "Oh, you're going. I'm not going to have you moping around, thinking of what could've been."

                "Thanks, Paris."

                "Not a problem. Not a problem. Besides, anything to get out of yoga."

                Suddenly, the door flew open and Jess stormed in. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere?" he growled, impatiently.

                Flabbergasted by his appearance, Paris started stuttering, "I—was just leaving, Jess… Rory!" she pointed an accusing finger at the wide-eyed girl. "It's all her fault!"

                "I think this is my cue to exit now. Have fun, Paris. Jess, nice seeing you." She received a nod of acknowledgement from him, as the left the room. Then, it hit her. Rory was going to see him—Michael.

She was getting all this get to her head…or maybe her heart.

_To Be Continued…_

****

I know this chapter is slow, long, and not at all exciting, but I promise, things will speed up soon! :D

Priya


	5. Too Much Drama

**Disclaimer:** The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me; they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. ****

**A.N.: **This story has been neglected far too long. Plus, I'm in my spring break, so I have plenty of time. 

**READ THIS:** Most of the time I put author's note just for the insane pleasure I get out of my ramblings, but no, not this time. This actually is important. There were a few questions addressed to me after the last chapter, and I'm willing to explain them. 

1. The question that has been asked so many times: Who is Michael? 

Well, my dears, you just want me to spoil the whole thing, don't you? You'll just have to wait and see, but what I can say is that Michael is **NOT** Tristan's twin brother (::rolls eyes:: Really now, people.) For those of you who know how to use common sense, I'm sure you'll figure out easily. If you still don't by reading the response to my second question, there is no hope for you. :P

2. Why don't Paris and Rory recognize the DuGrey name? 

Umm, well, for one the world does not revolve around Tristan DuGrey, no matter how much I want it to. Secondly, this isn't going to be one of those stories where Tristan and Rory spend all they're life pining for each other. Another thing, Rory isn't _that clueless; she eventually will figure it out. As for Paris, she will remember soon, too. Her brain is probably a little fuzzy on her high school crushes. I mean, after all, she has YummyJess to much on! _

All will unravel in time, my curious friends, but I think I just gave away a lot. Heh.

**Shout-outs: **To **Jamie** because she urged me to write this chapter. To **Nate** because he rocks, and he inspired me to write the whole pig-tails scene. To **Roxy 'cause she's my Double L. To ****Elise, my lovely muse. And ****Iris, get working after your fun-filled exams or you're not getting that anatomically correct HA statue. It will be all mine! Bwah. Oh, and I stole the "bitch-brunch" line from _Will _and Grace.__**

Priya

*              *              *

**::Too Much Drama::**

The two girls sat comfortably in a booth right next to a window, which was the perfect spot. Cascading through the window, the light hit them in the just the right angle, making their faces glow, and giving an extra boost to Lane's natural hair drying method. Right now Mr. Sun was on the top Lane's favorite list. Not only was it giving off the right amount of UVA rays, but also it made the day seem much pleasanter, which made everyone more happier—always a good thing in Boston, especially when it came to traffic.  

"Really, Lane," Rory uncrossed her legs, "use a hair-dryer. It's not so bad."

The raven-haired girl twisted a chunky portion of her hair around middle and index fingers, carefully wringing the water droplets on the table. They had been at this topic for ten minutes now. She stared at the little puddles that she had created, and answered, mimicking her friend's tone, "Really, Rory, give up. It's not so bad."

She laughed. "Fine, fine. But when you have ratty-tatty hair, and all the people point, and ask if it's a raccoon on your head, don't complain."

"A raccoon?"

"Hey," she held her hands up defensively, "it could happen."

"Um, unless you're Daniel Boone—no," a familiar voice quipped from behind.

Rory's eyes darted up only to meet another pair of dancing bright eyes. A smile lit up her face, as she jumped out of the booth, and into her mother's arms. "Mom!" It was nice to be in the arms of her mother once more. No matter how old she would get, she would always retreat to the safe cocoon—warm, familiar, comforting—that her mother harbored.  

"Hey there, babe," she whispered, hugging her tight, "How you doing?"

"Not well," she replied. With one last squeeze, Rory pulled away. 

"Well, I'm sure I could probably fix you up." Lorelai slid into the booth with ease, placing her bag on the tiled floor. "Hiya, Lane!" She embraced the other girl warmly. "And, how are you?"

Now working untangling her hair—why did Rory always have to be right, she thought to herself? "Great, but in desperate need for a blow," she replied rather sadly. "This natural hair-drying method just wasn't working." She peered through the window, and was disheartened by the sight of the clouds enveloping the sun—plaguing the pleasant day, and her hair goals into darkness. "Damn you, Mr. Sun!"

Lorelai's eyebrow rose. "A blow?"

"Dryer," she quickly corrected, embarrassed at the slip of her tongue. "In desperate need of a blow dryer."

Lorelai winked. "Just making sure."

"Lane read her horoscope in a magazine and it said if she didn't do something naturally, the most obtrusive person in her live would pay her visit her."

"Oh," Lorelai nodded her head slowly, indicating she understood, "meaning none other than Mamma Kim herself." She stopped to think. "Now, tell me, Lane, from which magazine did you get this helpful advice?"

The Korean girl bit her cheek, a childhood habit she picked up; she did this whenever she became angry since talking back really wasn't an option the Kim household, unless she wanted to be decapitated. But now, she was concentrating—no anger involved, unless she didn't want to think for the day—medical school just might have sucked her brain dry. "I think it was something like Pineapple or Kumquat. Oh—it was! It was Kumquat."

Lorelai tilted her head, almost spewing out her latté. "You're listening to advice from a magazine called Kumquat. "And, you're going along with that?" The other girl nodded her head slowly. "Sweetie, we so need to cut weed out of your diet."    

Rory found this the perfect time to chime in. "I've been telling her for a year now."

Grabbing a napkin, Lorelai patted her mouth dry; she couldn't entirely prevent herself from spewing after Lane's comment. Her gaze drifted along the table, noticing an empty seat. "I see we're still missing a person."

Rory scanned the room. "Paris should be here soon."

As if one cue, Lorelai saw the petite blonde scurrying across the room. "Ah, speak of the devil."

As she drew near, the girls could tell there would be a lot of talking—not coming from them. Paris approached the table, panting. "Good grief. Is it really that hard to find a parking in Boston? Well, it shouldn't be. I mean, really, it's totally unnecessary to park like a hundred blocks away, and then run all the way here. I probably lost a few calories that way, which, isn't a total loss. Before that I had to run to the office, and Sam wouldn't let me get in because I had forgotten the damn key. So I had to call the really big security guard, you know the fat one who eats all of those Little Debbi Cakes? Yeah, he let me in. Does a grown woman need to go through that much pain in a day?" She slid into the booth, glancing at her watch. "Hey, look at the time. It's only ten." She stopped mid- ramble, when she saw all three girls suppressing their laughter. "What?"

"I don't know," Lorelai said between chortles, "Although, I do know that a grown woman so should not be wearing pig-tails."

Rory's hand flew to one of Paris' braids, and she tugged on it, playfully. "What happened to the hair, Pippy?"

Her head already spinning, Paris did not need anything else that would set her off. In her little rant before she forgot to mention the feud with Jess earlier that morning. "I wasn't aware that I had been invited to the bitch brunch," she snapped, dryly. As she had hoped, the table quieted down. They stared at her with blank faces for about a minute, until Lane broke the silence. Apparently, they had found that comment funny because they were laughing harder than before. 

"Someone isn't 'pipping' this morning," Lorelai quipped, flailing her arms.  

She rolled her eyes, relenting. "Besides, I ran out of conditioner, thanks to Jess and his 'crazy' hair. It was either this or a turban."

"Turban!" they yelled simultaneously, without missing a beat.

Lane chuckled. "Woo. Paris, you made my day. Now when I need a laugh, I won't have to think about my own hair."

Paris huffed. "Well, when I went to the office Nate said it looked cute."

"Nate also has a knee fetish," Rory countered.  "Is he still your hair adviser?" 

Lane popped her head in the conversation. "Wait, who's Nate?"

"He works at the paper and worships Paris."

"Oh, he does not," she denied.

Rory laughed out loud. "Paris, the guy's built you shrine. If you'd let him, he'd bring you your slippers in the morning."

"I don't have slippers."

"Besides the point."

"Which is?" Paris asked, crossing her arms across her chest.

Lorelai spoke out. "The moral to this pointless discussion, kids, is that," she reached out and tugged one of Paris' braids like Rory had done earlier, "this little piggy should've stayed home." 

Paris groaned and the whole table erupted into laughter once again. 

*              *              *

                They had launched into a discussion about Michael. As much as Rory enjoyed talking about the mysterious man, she was getting fed up with it all. She _needed_ solitude. "What if he snores? What then?"

                "Um, I'll live with it," Rory responded to another one of Lane's inane questions. 

"Live with it?" Lorelai snorted. "You know, sometimes I wonder," she mumbled to herself, "if they switched you at the hospital with some other _nice kid." She stared intently at the four empty cups of coffee resting in front of Rory. "And then, you do something like that," she motioned to Rory, who was already chugging her fifth cup, "to prove me wrong." She then threw her arms around Rory, in a swooping gesture. "You really are my baby!"_

Paris rolled her eyes. "Someone hand her a tissue."

"No," Rory corrected, scrunching up her face, "someone extract her!" 

Huffing Lorelai pulled away. "Hmph. I can't even hug my daughter now. So is that it?"

A plate of cranberry crumble cake was pushed Lorelai's direction; a tactic that had always worked to hush her up.

The girls busied themselves in catching up with Lane and Dave's relationship, Lorelai and Luke's, and when Paris' turn came, she didn't say anything. Apparently, "there was nothing left to say about Jess anymore." They dropped that topic immediately, and the girls pounced once again on Rory and her decision on whether or no to go. 

"I'm still not sure," Rory picked at her pastry. Her plan was to avoid eye contact, and be too pestered. 

"How many times have we been through this, Rory? There's nothing to lose," the blonde assured soothingly.

"But—"

"No 'buts'," the elder Gilmore protested. "All 'buts' are bad, unless it's a "butt" and Colin Farrell's. But that's another story." All talking ceased and everyone looked at Lorelai, even Rory. "What's wrong with admiring the asses of other men?" she asked incredulously. 

"I'm sure Luke would beg to differ," Paris smirked.

"Evil, Pippy child," she cried out, "you wouldn't dare."

"Oh, wouldn't I?" she smiled sweetly.

"Damn," Lorelai cursed. "Okay, fine, how much do you want?" She started digging through her purse.

"Uh, guys," Lane cut through, "sorry to interrupt but we should be convincing Rory to go."

"Oh…right," they nodded.

Rory sighed, her annoyance building up by the minute. "Look, guys, I know you're trying to be helpful and all, but I don't want to discuss this right now."  She hopped out of her seat, and started heading towards the door. "I have some work to do. I'll see you later."

Lorelai swiftly stood up. "Chicken!" she accused loudly with much gusto. Rory's head turned, along with everyone else's in the café, however; her mother's outburst did not hamper her plan of floating through the door. Grumbling at being deserted, Lorelai sat back down, only to realize that all eyes present in the café were still staring at her. She laughed uncomfortably, and explained: "She needed a seven letter word for poultry." ****

        Before standing up again to pursue her daughter, her gaze drifted to Paris where seven large cups, once brimmed with coffee rested. She mused out loud, "Maybe Paris is my daughter." Then waving to the girls, she left.

*              *              *

        Rory stuck the key in the hole, turning it slowly. On the count of three she would gently give it a little nudge. One, two—_Damn._ The door creaked as it open. Why didn't she oil the hinges before? There went her sneak-in-the-house-without-making-a-peep-plan. Sighing she stepped in, being greeted by Lorelai lying on the couch reading a magazine.

        "Welcome back, rude hostess," Lorelai muttered.

        "What?" She slipped out of her clogs, and began peeling socks off.

        Flinging the magazine onto the table, she sat up cross-legged. "Me," she pointed at herself, "guest. You," she then pointed at Rory, "hostess." 

        "Thank you for that translation, Oog."

        "Me no Oog!" Lorelai corrected. "Me Tarzan."

        "Except for the facts, that A, you are not male; B, you do not pick bugs out of your hair and eat them; and C, you so should not be seen wearing a loin cloth," lettered off Rory, making a face at the last point. 

        "Thank you for that lovely visual," she grimaced. "So, what have you been up to?"

        Rory held up a shopping bag. "I went to Barnes and Nobles."

        "Wow," the elder Gilmore commented, "I think that's a record—Rory Gilmore leaving a book store under three hours, unless there was some other place you went to." Rory shook her head. 

        Taking a quick peek into the fridge, in search for food, Rory asked, "Is there any more Chinese food left?" asked 

        "No," replied Lorelai automatically. "I had two bites from the chow-mien, when found a strand hair in it. I called the restaurant guy, whom by the way, so has a mullet, and told him that I had found hair in my precious chow-mien. He asked me how the hair tasted like, and when I said 'oily,' he only stated that wasn't his hair because he already knew how his hair tasted like. That wasn't the response I was hoping for, and of course, like any sane person, I dumped the food in the trash." Lorelai smiled, happy with her explanation.

        "You ate it all, didn't you?"

        "Yes," she blurted out guiltily, "and now I feel like a bloated cow."

        "Cows aren't bloated, Mom."

        "Clearly, you haven't seen the Ben and Jerry's cow shirts." 

        "So," Lorelai started off, "ready to chat a bit?"

        "No." As Lorelai waited, Rory took three cleansing breaths.

        "Now?" 

        She nodded. 

        "Let's start off with this morning. We were all happy and cheerful mocking Paris—a wonderful start to the day. You had sufficient caffeine, and delectable pastries. Work is going pretty well for you, I hear. And you're used to our nagging. So what I'm curious about is why you stormed off?"

        "I don't know." She sighed, frustrated. "I—I just don't want to mess things up. I mean, really, doesn't it sound crazy to you that a girl should just run off after a mysterious man, whom she's never met before? For all I know, or don't for this matter, he could be a wheel-barrow mechanic."

        "Aw, honey, come here," Lorelai beckoned her. She extended her arm outward, grabbing a pillow and placing it in her lap. Instinctively, Rory lied down, resting her head on the pillow, and as her head began to sink into the plush support, she felt sixteen again—the same emotions, except with more intensity. And, of course, her mother was there to help her deal.

        "Want to hear my opinion?"

        "Do I have a choice?"

        "Some where in the state of Boston—yes."

        Even though she knew the answer, she asked, anyway. "And in Rory's apartment?"

        "No." 

        Rory closed her eyes, her mother's soothing motions lulling her into serenity. "Go on."              

        "Okay, kid," she warned, "it's time for a sappy moment, so buckle up." She stroked Rroy's head lightly. "First of all, I love you loads."

        "I love you too, Mommy."

        "And since I'm not dead, I need to give you advice." She was silent for a few seconds, thinking of what to say.  "Look, I'm your mother; it's my responsibility to look after you. I need to make sure that you're okay…and that Sookie's head isn't getting stuck anywhere."

        "It's amazing how she still manages to do that," Rory commented, eyes still sealed.

      "Thank god for Spam…But anyway," her mother continued, "You are in a really wonderful situation. There's no downside for you, so don't blow this out of proportion. If you want to go, go. If you don't, don't. It's as simple as that. But if you choose not to, don't torture yourself on what could've been. If you want something, you go make it happen. Don't just watch from the side lines because you won't be getting anything from there."

"You make it seem so simple."

" 'Cause it is!"

Rory rolled over on her stomach, so she could see her mother's reassuring smile. "Fine, Mom. I'll go." She watched as the smile widened.

Two days later Rory jumped into the deep seas of the unknown, unafraid of drowning, with just a bag of clothes and three letters that might not mean anything at all. Cinderella was off to see her Prince Charming.

*              *              *

_To Be Continued…_

Don't be anxious, my friends, because in the next chapter Rory will be meeting her mysterious man. And if I don't update by next week, I give you permission to slap me.

Priya


	6. Fac ut gaudeam: Make my day

**Disclaimer:** The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me; they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. The story line that I'm using is from the book Message in a Bottle, by Nicholas Sparks, which I hold no ownership of either. I _will_ use some other quotes and descriptions from it in this story.****

**Author's Note: **This chapter was tough for me to write because I struggled with the idea of a T/R meeting. If any parts seem choppy or not in character, I apologize. 

**Shout outs: **To **Katie** for she inspiring and encouraging me to continue with this fic. And my lovely **Jamie** who yelled at me. And, **Christine, who almost died this past week. Okay, not really, but I'm glad you're still around. And, of course, ****Ashley, the Wilmington- Know-It All. You all rock!**

*              *              *

Rory awoke unusually early. Anxious to get started, she opened the window and stepped forward into the light. The North Carolina sun glowed pink in the early morning haze, casting long golden prisms through the window. Rory whole-heartedly wished she could spend more time basking in the sun, but there was something to be done.  Leaving the window open, so the sunlight would keep streaming in and warming the room, she headed to the bathroom. 

                Humming to herself, she started a shower. When the warm water beads massaged her neck, working out the crooks, she thought about how easy the trip had been. A few days ago, she was with Paris searching for Michael, and persuading herself to do this. Once she arrived home, she asked Elise to pick up her mail, and Jamie to feed Cleo. Jamie had just moved into the apartment complex a little less than two weeks ago, and immediately fell in love with Cleo. She, too, had two cats of her own so Rory trusted her, and knew for sure Cleo would be well taken care of.

                The next morning Rory had headed off to the library to do some research on scuba diving. It seemed reasonable enough. Her years as a journalist taught her to always be prepared, and never take anything for granted. She needed some back ground information on her subject, who in this case was Michael and his love for scuba diving. That day, she left the library with a familiar grasp on scuba diving, feeling that a conversation could be sparked with the new knowledge she held. 

                The plan she had in mind was simple. Rory would drive to Island Driving and browse around the store, hoping to catch a glimpse of Michael. If he turned out to be an eighty year old man or an eighteen year old kid, she would turn around and go back to Boston. But if her intuition was right, she would try to say something to Michael, which is where the library research came in. If they spoke about scuba-diving, she would learn more about him without revealing herself too much, at first.

                But what, she asked, would happen after that? She didn't want to tell Michael the reason for her sojourn—that would sound ridiculous. _Hi. I read the letters you wrote to Christine, and knowing how much you loved her, I thought you'd be the guy or me._ No, that was crazy, but the other option wasn't looking any better—_Hi. I'm from the_ Boston Times _and I found the letter to Christine. Could we do a story on you?_ Neither of those seemed right, nor did any other of the ideas that swirled in the mimesis of her mind.

But Rory Gilmore had not come this far to turn back know, despite the fact that she hadn't the slightest inkling of what to say. Besides, as Paris had reiterated multiple times, she had nothing to lose; if things didn't work out, she would go home.

Now came the moment of dread—choosing what she would wear. Because her mind had been wandering off and making the worst case scenarios of her future encounter with Michael, she had no time to care for her appearance. Remembering that she really hadn't been thinking when she packed, or rather thinking too much, she hoped she had something adequate to wear. Then a buried thought came to her: she never did pack her suitcase; Lorelai did. Great, she thought to herself as she rummaged through the bag. 

A crimson dress—too elegant; seemed like Lorelai was hoping there would be a romantic candle-lit dinner. The perfect little black dress—a little to perfect, Rory thought. After digging a bit deeper, she found something suitable—an aqua colored top paired with a pair of some jeans. It was strange; she didn't remember any of these items being in her closet. A flash of pink caught her eye, and she carefully extracted the article of clothing, if it even qualified as one—lingerie! Good grief. It's not like she would be having hot-passionate-monkey-sex with Michael any time soon, after all, she wasn't a Lolita. Groaning, she made a mental note to lecture Lorelai about not buying her clothes or fiddling with her closet, and when she would be done bursting Lorelai's ear drums, she would quietly thank her for the outfit she chose to wear that day. 

After applying lotion on her arms and legs, she dressed in the selected outfit. She wanted to look casual, and she did. She definitely did not want to be noticed right off the bat. After all, not knowing what to expect, she needed an opportunity to evaluate the situation at hand. 

But what failed to slip into Rory Gilmore's mind was that she could just never blend in; she was born to stand out, at least, for one certain individual.

When she had convinced herself that it was time to leave, she found the phone book, thumbed through it, and hastily wrote down the address of Island Driving. Two deep breaths and a small pep talk later, she had locked her door and was walking down the hall. Again she remembered Paris and repeated her motto. 

*              *              *

Her first stop was at a local store, where she purchased a map of Wilmington. The sale-clerk, who was just too perky, it seemed they all were, had given her directions, and she found her way easily, despite the fact Wilmington was larger than she imagined. 

Island Driving was located near the marina. Once she had made her way into town, she traffic became less congested. Turning right on the road she needed, she slowed down searching for the shop.

It was an old wood building, faded from the salty air and sea breezes. The hand-painted sign hung on two rusty metal chains, and the windows had the dusty look of a thousand rain storms. 

Taking a last look in the mirror, making sure she hadn't developed any scarring marks on her face in the last hour, she stepped out, and felt sixteen again. It was weird. She paused before opening the door, feeling as if it were some threshold between great forces and dramatic music should be playing in the background. Finally, she took the step inside, doing her best to make it appear she was there for ordinary reasons. 

She browsed through the store, walking amongst the aisles, stopping once in a while to pick up something, examining it and then replacing it on its rack. Her eyes darted from side to side, glancing furtively at every male, wondering, _Are you Michael?_ Most, however, were customers.

She worked her way to the back, where a wall was devoted to Wilmington happenings. Laminated news paper cut outs, articles, and pictures were tacked up on the bulletin board. After a cursory glance, she was about to leave when a picture reeled her back in. She had found the answer to her first question about her mystery man.

She knew what Michael looked liked, from the side, at least.

It was a black and white picture, showing him helping a student strap on her oxygen tank. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw he was not old, probably in his late twenties. Light hair that reached right above his shoulders. Dear God, she silently prayed, please say that he's chopped off the mullet. Her disappointment was gone when her gaze traveled to his lithe form—he was lean and she could see his well defined muscles. Because the picture was grainy, and black and white, she couldn't make the shape of his face out. Oh well, two out of three isn't so bad. Now all she had to do was look for a blonde man. 

She read the article carefully, noting important facts. She read about his boat the _Happenstance_ and how he and Christine had restored it. __

_Christine._

 That was when she came to an abrupt stop, and looked at the article's date:  July 2, 2004. The article didn't mention that Christine had died, and since the previous three letters were written after she died, ranging from 2006 to 2007, which was the current year, Christine must have died somewhere between August 2004 to 2005.   

"Can I help you?"

Rory turned instinctively to the voice behind her. A young man was smiling pleasantly at her, and she was glad that she had seen a picture of Michael, even if it was a bad one. This person obviously wasn't he. 

Rory shook her head. "No…I was just reading the articles."

He whistled softly. "She something, isn't she?"

Rory opened her mouth, about to make a biting remark that she didn't appreciate him hitting on her, especially when she was wearing her "blend in outfit", when she realized he could be talking about something else.  She narrowed her eyes. "Who?"

"The _Happenstance_." The man simply responded to her relief. "Michael—the guy who owns this shop rebuilt her. She's a great boat, now that she's done."

Rory wanted to request for the man to stop referring to the boat as "she," because it could give people the wrong ideas, but stopped herself, knowing he would probably be annoyed. She opted for the other option, asking the location of Michael. "Is he here?"

"Who?" It was his turn to be puzzled.

"Michael."

"No, he's at the docks. He won't be in till later this morning."

"Oh…"

"Can I help you find something? The shop is kind of cramped, but I assure you, we have everything in here relating with diving."

She declined politely. "No thanks. I was just browsing." 

"Okay, but if I can help you find something, let me know."

"I will," she said, and the young man headed towards the counter. Then a thought cam to her, he could help her find something. Before she could stop, she heard herself ask: "You said Michael was at the docks?"

He turned around again, but kept walking backwards. "Yeah—a few blocks down the road. Do you know where the marina is?"

"I passed it on the way here."

"If you'd like, you can leave a message for him. But like I said, he should be here in an hour or so."

"No, it's not that important." She spent the next three minutes looking around the store some more, and debating whether she should go to the marina. Walking out the door, she waved goodbye to the young man.

Instead of heading towards the car, she started her walk to the marina. 

*              *              *

                After reaching the marina, she looked around hoping to spot the _Happenstance._ Because the vast majority of other boats were white, and the _Happenstance was natural wood, she found it easily, and climbed up the appropriate ramp. _

                Even though Rory felt rather queasy, the articles she had read in the shop supplied her with a couple of ideas to talk about. Once she would meet him, she would simply say that after reading the fascinating articles on the _Happenstance_, she just had to come down and get a look at the boat. It would sound credible, and if all went well, she could parlay that into a longer conversation. She would then have an idea of what he was like. After that…well, that's all she had so far.

                The boat looked deserted. She didn't see anyone on board or on the docks. Instead of just going back to the hotel, she took a moment to admire the boat. It was stunning—rich and textured, unlike the boats surrounded it. Now she could see why the paper had done a story on it. She traced the frame of the wood, wondering how long it took to restore the boat.

                As she paced back and forth, studying the boat from different angles, a man stood on a ramp a few feet away from her, studying her. 

                He watched as she bent down to pick up something she had dropped. "Can I help you with something?" he asked, smiling at her, but didn't approach her, not wanting her to feel trapped.

                Which was exactly how she felt when their eyes met. Blue on blue.

                For a moment all she could do was stare at him. She managed to break free from his eyes, only to be awed by his body, as her gaze traveled up it. That picture had not done him any justice. He was sweating in the morning heat, his shirt which was soaked in a couple of places, clung onto to him, defining his stomach. The torn sleeves of his shirt revealed the tight muscles in his arms and forearms. She silently thanked him for cutting that hideous mullet he had sported in that picture. He was broad shouldered and tall, about six feet, she estimated. He had a rugged look to him, making him appear as someone who spent most, if not all, of his time near the ocean. But there was a strange sense of familiarity that surrounded him, though; she couldn't place her finger on it.

                Remembering her plan, Rory motioned towards the _Happenstance_. "I was admiring your boat. It's lovely." She hoped that he wouldn't comment on the fact that she was admiring him, as well.

                 "Thank you," he replied politely.

                His steady gaze exposed the reality of the situation—finding the message, her growing curiosity, the research, and finally this face-to-face meeting. Overwhelmed, she steadied herself against the side of the boat, and caught herself fighting for control. She never expected this to happen so quickly. She found herself drowning in a moment of pure terror.

                He stepped forward. "You okay?" 

                Willing herself to relax, she answered, "Yeah. I got a little dizzy there."

                "Sure?"

                She ran a hand through her hair, embarrassed. "I'm fine now. Really."

                "Good," he said and then paused to see if she was telling the truth. "How did you know this was my boat?"

                "I saw your picture in the article at the shop, and the boat's too. I wanted to find out more about it, so I came here. The guy in the store told me I'd find you here," she explained.

                "He said I was here?"

                She was silent as she remembered the exact words, "Yes, he said you'd be at the docks. I just assumed you'd be here."

                He nodded. "I was at the boat we use for diving." He stared at Rory, feeling some strange familiarity. He could never forget eyes like those. 

                They made some more small talk, before Rory launched him into an interrogation. Querying about topics such as, the wood of the boat, the restoration process, the interior, and using the boat to spy on the Germans in World War Two. 

                They came to a stand still. "Well, I've probably taken up enough of your time."

                "No problem," he said. "It's not every day that a beautiful woman appears on my boat. Besides, I love to talk about sailing—it's the only thing that makes sense in my life now." _Damn. He cursed himself silently for letting too much slip out. ___

                A blush crept up Rory's cheek, as she chose to ignore his last comment. "Well, I would love to talk about sailing some more. It seems like fun."

                It came as a shock to him. "You've never been?"

                She laughed at the expression on his face. "You look like I just told you that I'm an assistant crack whore." He was silent. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not!" she assured.

                He chuckled. "No, I'm just surprised at the fact that someone so interested in sailing hasn't actually gone."

                She shrugged. "Well, I've always wanted to," she lied. "I've just never had the time."

                "Looks like I just found myself a sailing mate for tonight. That is, if you're interested in going."

                Why he said that, he wasn't exactly sure. Maybe he desired a female companion, if only for a short period. Or maybe it was the way her blue eyes lit up when she talked. Or maybe it had to do with the way he had caught her looking at him earlier. For whatever reason, he was glad that he asked, and was hoping she would accept. 

                Rory, too, was a little taken back. In the end, however, she accepted. After all, it was the reason for her coming to Wilmington. "I'll just have to take you up on that. What time?"

                "How about seven? The sun begins to drop then, it's the ideal time to go out."

                He was a romantic, she noted. "Seven sounds great."

                "Then I'll see you here tonight," he told her. 

                "On the boat."

                "Yes," he confirmed, "on the boat."

                "Okay then. I'll see you later."

                She turned around to leave, her hair blowing in the breeze, when he realized what he had forgotten. Just as he was about to call her, she turned back around, instinctively, and walked towards him again.

                They both opened their mouths at the same time and began speaking, only to realize that sounded all jumbled up.

                "You go first," Rory offered.

                "No, it's okay. _You go first."_

                She bit her cheek. "No, I told you to go first, first. Therefore, you are going first."

                Before he could stop, the words came out of his mouth: "This might sound a bit odd," he paced himself, "but throughout our whole conversation, I've had this nagging feeling that we've met before."

"Funny," her voice trailed off, "that's what I was going to say…"  
  


"Are you in law?" he asked, shielding his eyes from the sun.  
  
"Journalism."  
  
"Live in Wilmington?"  
  
"Boston."  
  
"Princeton?"  
  
"Yale," she answered without missing a beat.  
  
Their interrogation stopped briefly. He studied her face with great scrutiny, hoping to find any recollection of memory.   
  


His eyes narrowed, like he had just triggered something in his mind. "Connecticut."  
  
"Yes."  
  
His voice quivered; the bitter word was spat out urgently. "Chilton."  
  


Rory stood there paralyzed, her eyes glued to his face. _It couldn't be, her mind yelled! His name rolled around in her head. _

_DuGrey_. 

Michael _DuGrey._

 It taunted her for not figuring it out sooner. 

_DuGrey._

A flash of blue. 

A Chilton blazer.

A profile leaning against the lockers. 

A smirk. 

"Oh my God," she finally managed to whisper hoarsely.

Time dissolved from his features, leaving him sixteen again.

"Tristan."  
  
His throat went dry. "Rory."  
  


*              *              *

_To be Continued…_

*              *              *__


	7. Memory Seeps from My Veins

**Disclaimer:** The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me; they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. The story line that I'm using is from the book Message in a Bottle, by Nicholas Sparks, which I hold no ownership of either. ****

**Author's Note: ::walks** in and finds everyone dead:: Aw, damn…

I feel horrible for not writing. I haven't been feeling inspired lately to write Trory. I guess the excess of Draco/Hermione fics I've been reading are to blame for that. *grins*I wasn't at all planning to update, but for a few days now my inbox is being flooded with reviews giving me reasons why I should update, which is very odd. And, I guess if people want me to update so much, I shouldn't disappoint them now, should I? Basically I wrote this in shock of the fact people wanted to see me finish something I began on a whim. ****

**Dedications:** To **Ashley, the luckiest gal. EVER. *envious* **Elise **because she's too cool and she made me a BirthdayCrown. **Jamie** because well, she's Jamie! ****Mai-Anh because she has become my personal stalker and urges me to update with her lovely demands. ****Roxy****, Lessa, and ****Janine because they're incredible. And my lovely, conniving **reviewers**, who make me feel rather guilty. Damn, you guys are good!**

Priya

*          *          *

**::Memory Seeps from My Veins::**

_Rory._

_Rory_, he said. 

_Rory_, he said evenly, as though she hadn't just found out that the man, who she had been crazy to meet, was the man she spent her sophomore year at Chilton skillfully avoiding.

She looked ahead, thinking of how to respond to him, but there was no need to speak—the look on his face was enough. "Rory Gilmore," he repeated, as if he needed to echo her name as many times as possible to believe that she stood before him. Something drove her to take a step forward—she needed to touch him. 

Was he real? 

Her hand quivered as it began to rise up to his face. His skin was burnished brown by the sun, and it seemed that the salty sea breezes had eroded away any wrinkles, leaving him smooth. She wanted to stroke the curves of his face only to realize that her hand passed right through him. She wanted to believe that he was an illusion. 

He cleared his throat, and her panic seized eyes widened as she stared at her hand, which seemed to be paralyzed, hovering in mid-air.

Close enough to touch, but far away to burn.

Finally noticing the state of her hand, she snatched it back quickly before she could make a bigger idiot out of herself and cradled it. She frantically scanned her hand thoroughly to see if any damage had been done by their "almost contact." Rory had no idea what she was doing—wanting to touch him? _I just wanted to see if he was real_, she consoled herself, glanced up, and was finally caught by his bewildered stare.

His eyes were the ocean—turbulent and placid at the same time—and sad to say, she found herself drowning in them. His questioning, soul stirring gaze pierced hers with an undeniable eternity. Mesmerized and forever unwavering.

She was struggling—fighting an internal battle with herself. Part of her wanted to jump back and ask just what hell was going on, but the other wanted to get lost in his stormy eyes. Rory needed to draw back before she did something regretful, but the foreign allure to his eyes played riddles with her. Gritting her teeth, she swung her head downwards, finally lowering her own eyes.

Then it happened again—the dizziness overwhelmed her, the salty breezes of the ocean mixed with tangy refuse crushed her to the point of nausea, and she swiftly retreated to her former position, leaning hard against the door frame for support. The impact of this cataclysm hit Rory full force, and she was drowning. But this time, not in his eyes; she was drowning in a moment of pure terror. She never expected all of this to happen so quickly, especially this one chance encounter with _him_. _He _was the last person she needed to see—she wanted _Michael_—not _him! _

Before she could stop, Rory had begun a comparison of what she wanted and what stood before her. Tristan's hair was a halo of blonde tufts; she wanted rich, dark curls. Tristan's eyes were startling and stormy cobalt; she wanted knowing and soothing brown. Tristan's skin was sun-kissed tan; she wanted flawless alabaster. Tristan's hands were calloused and strong; she wanted smooth and refined. Tristan smelled like the salty, cool ocean; she wanted sultry cologne and spice. Tristan was reality; she wanted fantasy. This was Tristan; she wanted Michael.

Before Rory could prevent it, she let out an estranged moan of disdain.

Even though she constantly reminded herself not to get her hopes up, she had failed. Being a woman brought up in the world of fantasy and love, she fantasized about her Prince, conjuring up his features, his touch, his smell, his voice. She wanted everything to be the exact opposite. She didn't want Tristan DuGrey.

_Oh, God, _she groaned inwardly, _this isn't happening. _

She cleared her throat awkwardly and focused her attention on the delicate wrist-watch. They had been like this for almost 3 minutes. Pushing back a small division of her hair, she looked up again. She needed to say something. His name would be a good start. She opened her mouth but nothing came out; she tried again: "Tristan." That was odd. Rory took a deep breathe stilling leaning against the door frame, "Why aren't you M—" she stopped herself immediately, seeing his body stiffen. During her befuddled brevity, all common sense had left her, and it was slowly making its way back through the haze. Her consciousness kicked in; she couldn't talk about Michael or Tristan. Rory couldn't reveal to him that she had come in search of Michael, not _him. She opted for another question, "What I mean to say is…how — how you are doing?"_

After gawking at her for approximately thirty more seconds—she timed it—with the weirdest expression, he ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up more, and spoke in stutters. "I'm…I'm…good… I'm really, really surprised to see you here…" He cleared his throat, waiting for her to chime in.

All of her reporter senses left her as the color drained from her face, making her eyes unusually brighter against the stark contrast. It was then she seriously considered how she had come to snag a job at _The Boston Times. Rory couldn't do this any longer—couldn't put up with the pleasantries, the charade. It was quite obvious that the heavy blanket of tension needed to clear up quickly before it suffocated them both. She rattled her mind for a solution, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out in a small voice: "I—I've got to go." She began to back up, almost tripping down the ramp. _

Then she did what she did best. She did it when Dean first kissed her, when _he _kissed her, and when Seth wanted her.

She ran. 

Out of place, out of sight, out of mind. And didn't look back either. 

*          *          *

She frantically raced away from the marina, as if her life depended on it. In some ways, it did. Rory Gilmore had just been slapped by reality: her Michael was none other than Tristan DuGrey.

Plus, she had almost touched him. _But what mattered was that I didn't, she comforted herself quickly. Though she still eyed her hand peculiarly, wondering why it was tingling like mad. _

What was worst, she had agreed to meet Tristan DuGrey tonight. On a date. No, no, that couldn't be right—it was just a meeting for good friends. Now they were friends? Not after the little Road Runner stunt she just pulled. Her mind was flying off into ten different directions—not one of them focused on the present. She blindly crossed the street, taking no notice to the fact she was running through a green light. She came to a screeching halt, when a car slammed on its break and horn, preventing Rory from becoming road kill. It was then she took notice of her surroundings: stranded in the middle of a street with ongoing traffic and a very pissed of granny. After apologizing profusely to the older woman, she made a mad dash to her car—this time aware of traffic lights. 

A thought occurred to her, and she dug around in her purse for her cell phone. She hit Lorelai's number on speed dial, and waited. One. Two. Three. Voicemail. _Maybe she's not home_, she thought before realizing that she was calling Lorelai's cell, which was permanently attached to Lorelai's side, or rather, her purse, which was attached to Lorelai's side. _Oy vey_, Rory groaned out loud, _she probably having sex with Luke_. She left a message, anyhow, telling Lorelai to call her back as soon as humanly possible.

Sighing miserably, she pondered whom to call next. Lane or Paris. She went with the latter because Paris actually knew Tristan. Hoping she would pick up, her fingers numbly punched at the numbers. She needed to talk to someone sane at that moment, and needed to be consoled. While the phone rang, she had calmed down a bit, but at the sound of Paris' voice, Rory lost all control and yelped: "_Tristan DuGrey_!"

"No," Paris corrected, through gritted teeth. _How many times, she thought, __will these bimbos continue to acknowledge me incorrectly? "This is Paris Gellar."_

"No, Paris!" Rory cried out desperately, her voice breaking. "It's Tristan. Tristan DuGrey."

"Rory?" Paris asked incredulously like she had never heard her voice before. "What are you doing?"

"Having a spaz attack," she moaned.

"Someone needs a major mud bath, salt glow, chill pill combo," Paris remarked, hearing the anxiety in Rory's voice.

"Someone needs to stop being snarky and help me! Oh, God," she groaned out loud as a revelation hit her. "I'm like those people!"

"You're going to give me something more to work with here."

"Those people who are so stupid that they get jack-o-lanterns carved after their face. Old women put them in their yards and snotty kids kick the stupid jack-o-lanterns because…GAH! Oh God," she repeated, "I'm going to be a Rory jack-o-lantern!"

 "Of a squash?"

"Pumpkin."

Paris was having trouble keeping a straight face at Rory's absurdity and her voice cracked when she spoke: "May I inquire the reason of such drastic measures?"

She groaned loudly. "I just committed a horrible act of stupidity, and I think it would only be fair if my face was carved in along with those other stupid people who were, well, stupid enough to get their faces on pumpkins."

"You should be in the Elvis category," Paris joked playfully, but then her tone became solicitous. "What happened, Rory?" The other line was silent but Paris could hear ragged breathing. "First you need to breathe. Deep breathes," she gently instructed, breathing herself to provide some encouragement. When she heard that Rory's breathing returned to her normal state, she continued:  "That's good. Now you can talk."

Rory took one last deep breathe. "Okay, well, you know Michael?" Paris nodded dutifully on the other side. "Well, here's the newsflash: you don't! He's not who we thought he was.  Well, we never really knew who he was in the first place, but he's not…" She let out an agitated squeal. "Oh, this is so frustrating! Michael is…Michael is…"she trailed off again, gulping.

Okay, so the cool, calm, and collected approach wasn't working for Paris either. "The next three seconds would be good, Gilmore!"

"Tristan DuGrey," she blurted out meekly.

There was a pregnant pause followed by a quiet gasp, and then an explosion. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph and a camel!" Paris went on that path for a minute, stringing out all any biblical references. At this time, Rory chose not to point out to Paris that she was Jewish.

"Rory, you should be in the Ozzy Osbourne category!" The line was silent again. _How could we have been so stupid?_ The absurdity of it all made Paris start chuckling, and that soon grew to hysterical laughter. It was infectious because Rory herself began to giggle. Paris tilted her head back with her shoulders shaking, her stomach clutched tightly. It was amazing that she didn't fall out of her chair, and started rolling around laughing. She did, however, kick her leg up, caught up in her fit of giggles, and banged her knee against the desk. This was all the pain she needed, and quickly smothered her laughter. "We're so daft."

Rory's breathing had become shallow again due to their previous outburst. "That doesn't even begin to describe."

"I can't believe I didn't think of that sooner. The last name was staring us right in the face!" she exclaimed. "We didn't even bother to comprehend!"

"I guess I was just so swept up by the euphoria that came along with finding him that I didn't realize it. It's like not noticing Kirk stripping in the Town Square to some techno music." Rory shook her head feverishly. "I deserve to be slapped."

"After that lovely visual, indeed."

All of their flippant, chaffing remarks came to a halt when the lingering question was aroused in Rory again. _Christine. All this time, she was so caught up with the shock of Michael being Tristan that it totally slipped her mind. But now, as she was thinking about it, the more nervous she grew. Tristan already had someone, and here she came into his life wanting him to become hers. However, that was before she knew his identity—before she knew he was Michael. Besides, it's not like the still wanted him…did she? Oh, this was all just too confusing!_

"I wonder," Paris' voice shook Rory out of her reverie, "why Tristan would take up the name of Michael then? Maybe it had something to do with Christine. Like their pet names for each other?"

Rory wrinkled her nose in thought. "I doubt it. When I went to his shop, the sales guy there knew him as Michael. _And, there was a newspaper article pinned up about him in the store that used Michael."_

"Maybe" Paris smiled slowly, "he just changed his name thinking it would create a desired effect on something he wished to possess. He pulled a Pam Anderson…minus the intentions of drawing attention to his boobs. Not that guys have boobs…well, transvestites and Dennis Rodman," she paused, thoroughly disturbed by what she just said, but nonetheless, chose to continue. "Maybe that's why she decided to hook up with him. Or maybe he's in some kind of a witness protection program."

Rory laughed aloud. "Yes, Paris, going through people's safes gets you into witness protection programs."

"Hey," she defended, "we don't know what happened in that military school of his."

"Wait, wait, wait." And Paris did just that. "Wasn't his military school in North Carolina?"

"Yes!" Paris nearly shouted. "And now, he's settled in North Carolina. Meaning he hasn't been to Hartford since to settle down, excluding holiday breaks, or else I'd know about it," Paris trailed off. "Actually, I haven't heard anything about him in the grape-vine now that I think about it. This is rather odd considering the DuGreys always used to gloat about Tristan's accomplishment. For instance, in fourth grade, we went to a pickle farm on a field trip, and _had _to participate in a contest to see who could find the biggest pickle. Tristan won, and of course, his parents beat that news around like a drum. Even a measly pickle win. I would've won, if I hadn't given in to my stomach's desire and decided to eat my pickle first. You couldn't even see where I had taken a bite…it was small, really. Damn, blind teachers," Paris finished of rather bitterly and mumbled some more about he had cheated.

"Paris Gellar: Confessions of a Woman in Desperate Need of Prozac. It'll knock J.K. Rowling of her spot on the best seller's charts."

Paris shook her head, and spoke still collecting her thoughts: "The point is, Gilmore, that the DuGreys practically worshipped Tristan back then to the point of pickle contests. And now, I haven't heard his name in years, meaning he must have done something horrible to get them to stop raving about him."

"He did," the brunette stated. "He got caught by the police and went to military school."

"It has to be more than that, Rory. I remember hearing from Arabella, Tristan's mom, about how he was the top student there and if he kept up his good behavior, he would be out soon."

"Wow," Rory mused, "this mean Tristan did something so horrible that his parents practically disowned him?"

"It seems like it," she admitted. "So what happened when you met him?"

Rory began rehashing the story much to her chagrin. Filling Paris in with all the gory details, because she knew if she didn't, Paris would pester her until she spilled. "So you flirted with him?" Paris asked, shocked. "You flirted with Tristan?"

"Well…I didn't know it was _him at the time. I thought he was Michael."_

"And then you made a date with him—"

"It's not a date," Rory protested.

Paris continued, not even hearing her, "Then you realized he was Tristan. About time. Bloody hell, if I saw the boy, would've done more than remember."

"Since when did you start saying 'bloody hell' to express your agitation?"

Paris glanced at the book in front of her, and traced its spine. "Since I started reading English smut."

Rory's jaw fell. "Excuse me…Smut?"

Paris quickly reverted back to her freakishly perceptive demeanor—her mind reeling for the precise definition of the term. She quoted: "Obscene language or matter in writing."

Rory shook her head, and switched the phone to her other hand. "I know what _smut _is, Paris. You could've just said sex."

"If you want to put plain and blatantly," she said dryly, and began thumbing through the book on her desk. "However, I do find it rather amusing that you issued the topic of sex when we're discussing Tristan DuGrey."

"I did not issue anything. You did," Rory retorted annoyed. 

"Tell me, darling," Paris adapted a crisp, English accent, having fun teasing Rory, "does Tristan DuGrey ooze of sex?"

Rory's jaw dropped again at her forwardness. "I can't believe you asked me that!"

"How about this," she began, "does Tristan DuGrey have—"

Rory cut her off, her mouth hanging even wider, if that was possible. "Gellar, shut up!" She could just see the victorious grin plastered on her face. "Can we change the topic please?" 

 "Oh, yes," the blonde conceded, still grinning, "Back to my thoroughly engrossing analysis of making Rory Gilmore squirm. You almost _touched _him." She was having too much fun.

"I _almost_ touched him. That's the key word," she put extra emphasis on the 'almost'. "Besides, it's not like I _licked_ him!"

This time Paris' jaw dropped, and she pointed a finger at the phone. "Ah ha! You're thinking about licking him!" she accused deviously. 

Rory groaned, banging her head on the steering wheel. "Oh. My. God." Maybe if she said some dirty English words, Paris would shut up. The last thing that she had read remotely close to anything British were the Georgia Nicholson diaries, which Lorelai persuaded her to read. Though, she couldn't recall its title. Her mind rolled back, searching. Then it registered: _Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging, and she pulled out particularly favorite line which Lorelai had quoted for over a month: "Running in my nuddy-nuddy pants!" she called out impulsively. _

Paris tilted her head, hesitating—a confused look upon her oval face. She opened her mouth to ask what the hell Rory was talking about, when it occurred to her that this was a distraction. A grin blossomed on her soft face, her cinnamon eyes dancing. "Nice try, Gilmore, but your random outbursts of inane phrases will not deter me." Rory grimaced; she could almost see the mischievous glint in Paris' eyes. "Then," Paris picked up immediately, "you freaked out because you almost touched him, when you were actually thinking about licking him," she heard a car horn honk and presumed it was Rory's head making contact with the steering wheel. _She really should stop doing that_, thought Paris, _I hear it's bad for the brain. "Then you told him you needed to leave, ran like the wind, and almost got run over by a granny? Wow, you'd give Ferris Bueller a run for his money."_

"Oh stop it," Rory huffed, "This is awful; I didn't want it to turn out like this."

"Don't tell me you had already conjured up the perfect Michael." Paris' voice softened. "Rory, you knew that you were setting yourself up to get hurt by doing that."

Rory didn't respond; she kept a steady gaze on the tree ahead of her. Apparently, finding the brown bark more interesting than Paris' words. 

"I know you don't want to respond to me right now, but if you made a date, Rory, then go. It's the least you could do for the poor boy. He's probably more shell shocked than you are," Paris put it simply. "And if you're still not comfortable with him because of our high school years then it's an even better thing to do. I'm sure he's been through a lot and isn't the rich, spoilt brat anymore." Paris heard Rory sigh on the other line. "Just consider it, Ror. Besides, I want to know why his parents don't boast about Pickle Boy anymore." Then she added in hastily, "I have a meeting with Nate, so I'll catch you later."

A wicked grin spread over Rory's face, and she opened her mouth to make a lewd comment.

But Paris beat her to it: "Shut up, Gilmore. We're just going to discuss books."

"Involving smut?"

Her response was the dial tone.

*          *          *

            Rory sat motionless in her hotel room, planning out her course of actions. Earlier she had spoken with Lorelai and Lane both, and they both advised her to meet Tristan. Once again Lane had repeated the carpe diem motto with so much gusto that she knocked down a picture frame in the process. Chuckling to herself, Rory decided that she was fed up with rationalizing. What could she possibly have to lose? She would meet Tristan, apologize for running away, catch up on old times, and come back home. Nothing more, nothing less. After all, she hadn't flown all the way to Wilmington just chicken out. The more she thought about doing it, the more sensible and appealing it became. She was actually looking forward to it.

Suddenly reality wasn't looking too bad to her after all. 

_To Be Continued…_

*          *          *

Chapter 7 is done! I made a promise to myself that I could open my birthday presents only when I updated. So since I've accomplished my goal…*pounces on The HotAss (Tristan) wrapped in a pretty pink box* Happy 15th to me, ladies and gentlemen! *wicked grin*


End file.
